The sky-blue cornflowers
in the big fields of ripe corn
wink at us.
Beside the church tower
the magpie comes to perch
his funereal garb.
Alone, the August wind
Has eyes so sweet
That one would happily drink from them;
And the forget-me-not
makes becomes like velvet
at the small of my back.
Look out, mate!
It's not always
that one makes love
with those things....!
Look out, mate!
Make blue eyes
as much as you like,
but don't think too much...
I run my hands
through your brown hair,
I see the sun,
It's the lost moment
always waited for
but never the same,
And while in heaven
the silence is such
that one hears it shouting,
In your eyes which blink
life is so pleasant
that I am drowned in it.
Look out, mate!
It's not always
that one makes love
with those things....!
Look out, mate!
Make blue eyes
as much as you like,
but don't think too much...
To see if things are alright
let's wait until next Sunday,
the sky-blue cornflowers
in the big fields of ripe corn
will happily wait for us;
the August wind
will be much sweeter
the second time round,
and the forget-me-not
will till be there
when we go there again.
But, you see, my lad,
I was clearly right
to pay attention...
I'm thinking too much already!
Who can say, my lad,
if we'll go again?....
if we'll go again?....
if we'll go again?....
...
if we'll go again?....