Colindul celui fără de țară [English translation]

Whatever you are and wherever you go,

No matter how bad or how good you are,

Whether you still believe or not in the Cross,

The hardest for you is on Christmas.

When strangers gather at their homes

And lights illuminate their Christmas trees,

You get cold in your bones

And you miss your home.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you out,

Your relatives don't come and visit you.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you up,

The relatives do not come to visit you.

You're dying here and nobody hears you,

But dream of everything you like

That you shave yourself and go to your relatives

And find cake on the table.

From their little, yours will do

All they can to be happy,

To live quietly and in peace

To laugh more, to have one more drink.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you up,

The relatives do not come to visit you.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you up,

The relatives do not come to visit you.

Wherever you'd be and whatever you'd be, old man

If longing has broken your back

And from longing all that's left

Is facing the ground with your face.

And to cry when others, celebrating,

Laugh with tears, as to defy you

To bewail your great pain

And to cry from missing your country.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you up,

The relatives do not come to visit you.

The wind blows, it blows from the country,

It blows with salt and wormwood in wounds,

The wind blows and shuts you up,

The relatives do not come to visit you.