I
In the valley, flocks of sheep
Are tended there by three shepherds
Two from one village, servants of evil
They've conspired against the stranger
We must kill him, take his sheep
No one here will cry for him
Our shepherd didn't even fight the bandits
He demanded to be burried in a grassfield with sheep
To hang Trombita above his grave
Maybe foehn wind will play it for him someday...
II
Old mother, at home awaits
No son, nor dog is barking
She went out, to see where
could be her beloved son
And she recognized, two of her son's sheep
When the two shepherds were returning
To God She cried out
To have these two bandits crushed by a rock
And their flocks of sheep destroyed
But God was listening to Trombita just then...
Old mother, at home awaits
No son, nor dog is barking