In the evening realm of the green spring, A calm river winds like a silvery string. The forested hills hug the red sun. The golden horn gives birth to the moon; In a tiny hut, the ploughman is back from the furrowed hills. The nightingale trills her loving tale, or a caprice, beyond the road, in a birch - coppice. The sunset above hears the songs and it blushes as if shy. The earth tenderly smiles at the sky, while she longs for the remote stars.