The dark clouds loom over our heads, lover
Our souls and bodies are crying my sufferer
Back when our feet little and eyes large
With hope and happiness, floated boats with barge ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
... Read complete poem