Üle vainude valendav aur,
vahulillede udune voodi.
Igaühel on südame laul,
igaühel on see isemoodi.

Lähen karjateed, [bad word] käes -
kutsun hiliseid laule ma koju,
ja nad tulevad männikumäelt,
kõige viimane udus veel ujub.

Minu laule vist teavad siin kõik
udus ripuvad kellukakannud,
kuna kõik nad siit karjamaalt sõid.
Nüüd üks vallatu plehku on pannud!

Üle vainude valendav aur,
mul on närbunud [bad word] süles.
Igaühel on siin oma laul
ja ma oma ei leiagi üles.

I Cannot Find My Song

Pale fog over the village green,
Misty bed of milkworts.
Everyone has a song of their heart,
Everyone has a different one.

Walking along a cattle-trail, pasqueflower in hand –
I’m calling late songs [bad word] home,
And [bad word] from a pine-grove hill
The last one still swimming in the mist.

My songs are surely known by every
Bluebell-jug hanging in the mist,
Since they all ate here in the pasture.
Now a mischievous one has taken to its heels!

Pale fog over the village green
withered pasqueflower in my lap.
Everyone here has their own song
And I cannot find mine.