Wind, wind, o snowy wind,
My bygone life I see again.
I'd like to be a boy as blond
And fair as the flowers at the field's rim.
From myself and all this life I'd like
To die while a sheep herder's horn blows.
In my ears the ringing of cowbells sticks
Drifting through the windy snow.
It's good to lose one's fog of troubles
As he drowns his anguish in a blizzard.
I used to like, where the road is level,
To stand on one leg like a tree.
Where horses stood snoring I used
To like to embrace the nearby bushes.
The sky's spilled pail and the moon's sharp claws
Would cheer me up of any sadness.