The days are moving away in pieces,
the years are moving away. too
but in my breast, there's still just
the most burning pain.
I'm looking far away over the meadows, into the dusk
and the grey wall of rain is making me cry.
Away the wild geese are leaving.
Again the stubble of the fields
and dim evenings creep
over quiet storehouses.
I'm looking far away over the meadows, into the dusk
and the grey wall of rain is making me cry.
Away the wild geese are leaving.
Again the stubble of the fields
and dim evenings creep
over quiet storehouses.