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I see by mountainside

A field so rich with rye,

A grace who walks in furrows.

The grace who has to die.

I’ll go and scythe the crops

And gently take your hair

You’re always in my heart

The beauty of the fields.

Your golden hair is long,

Your azure eyes are young,

Your smile is generous,

And arrow is your tongue.

I’ll bring the edgy scythe

And you will take my hand

Bewitching all of me

To have your final dance.

You’re born with summer sun

To touch the land with gold:

The circle has begun

Insanely young and old.

I’m chanted by the songs

You sing like heaven’s choir.

And naked dance you whirl

Is touching heart like fire.

I see by mountainside

A field so rich with rye,

A grace who walks in furrows.

The grace who has to die.

I’ll go and scythe the crops

And gently take your hair

You’re always in my heart

The beauty of the fields.