Niemi [English translation]

The smoke touches the birchbark, when the scent of summer makes great promises.

Long days drive the clouds far away from my face.

Do I imagine the bloody Sunday when I hear faraway echoes of the coachman shout:

"Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to see, there is no sunshine there.

Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to whisper silently about the bloody Sunday."

On the moon alley the aspen sways, its branches look at the shimmer.

Fresh leafs still laying on the ground, but in the morning as dirt they fall apart.

Those who are walking the beard moss tries to reach, but fails to reach them.

Its fingers have gotten longer when the days have gone by, still they dry on the tree branch.

Still the shrubs guard the path: "here before pressed to the ground."

There the coachman enters ahead, us following behind him.

Above the water ripples are chiming, the glimmer of the tree stump has faded above the day that's coming to an end.

The path to safety won't protect me, silent is the murder cape.

"Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to see, there is no sunshine there.

Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to whisper silently about the bloody Sunday."

"Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to see, there is no sunshine there.

Come to the end of the cape, to the tip of the cape to whisper silently about the bloody Sunday."