Traducir a
The sick little witch
Cross the swamp
With his broken broom
By hand
Small wild birds
They serve as little pages
And lead her there
Towards the stream
Like you in his hand
Elle conserve son chagrin
Which blooms like a thistle
Of buckwheat, black
A poacher reports to me
Small dead animals
Who look like my love
My love
They have lead in their wings
In the sides and the brains
Their fresh blood stains the night
All night long
Like you far from me
They are now too cold
They are now too cold
To smile, to smile
The little witch is dead
We nailed it to his door
Four big blue butterflies
And silent
The same mourning on your door
As the current carries me away
Towards great quicksand
Too moving
And for you in my life
Will-o'-the-wisps spring forth
Will-o'-the-wisps spring forth
And in my nights, in my nights
In my life
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