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She has eyes like a burning city
The voice of Bohemian violins
Her hair of seaweed and fading flowers
Flood her woolen shawl
She comes from a nomadic world and her soul
Path on the Great Plains
I would so much like to follow his caravan
Running through the blood in his veins
Daughter of fire, my gypsy
Black on the blue background of the gypsies
Oh, daughter of fire, my gypsy
Summer evenings, when the pyres ignite
On the Saintes-Maries side
Silver hands that come to us from Spain
Make the sea and the night dance
Arms outstretched towards the pale stars
She sings on the gray sand
The sea wind that lifts its sails
Take away his complaint and his cries
She is from a people who are hunted or parked
In wastelands or camps
It is not good to travel without a map
On the great wings of the wind
Daughter of fire, my gypsy
Black on the blue background of the gypsies
Oh, daughter of fire, my gypsy
She has eyes like a burning city
The voice of Bohemian crystal
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