Forest

Deep in the forest
 the omens are bad,
 a cloud passes over the moon
 Devil Wind
 bends the trees,
 a cloud passes over the moon.
 And the moon takes a peep
 when the Gypsy girl sings,
 and her song rises up
 from the dark to the light,
 like smoke to the sky,
 when the Gypsy girl sings
 at the river's edge.
 Deep in the forest
 the omens are bad,
 a cloud passes over the moon.
 White wolf waits,
 grey wolf howls
 at the girl by the river's edge.
 The bullet head boys
 with their baby blue eyes,
 their donner und blitzen,
 the lily white gadje
 religiously hatching their plots
 in the eyries of eagles.
 But the moon's keeping watch
 at the Gypsy girl sings,
 sees her song rising up
 like smoke to the sky
 from the dark to the light,
 when the Gypsy girl sings
 at the river's edge.
 Like the sun on the forest
 her song rises up, from
 the ashes of Auschwitz,
 the death camp at Lety,
 the white cliffs of Dover,
 the song of the Roma
 lives on and on...
 Trees grow tall
 though the winds blow cold,
 tall trees grow.
 Tall trees grow
 where the cold wind blow,
 trees grow tall.