Over hills, where the valley is low,
into vault made of leaves I will go,
with the mountain stream, I flow,
in the moonshine, I can howl.
During nights when the light won't shine,
followed by days without sign,
so far away I hear,
the calling of my stream.
Then he comes, whirling up my pool,
his footsteps ploughed away my jewel,
thunder strikes and he's away,
no light, nor dark, just grey.
Heavy clouds crying out their pain,
dreadful storm keeps my peace away,
so I close my eyes and see,
the valley, oaks and me.
Over hills, where the valley is low,
there was a place where I used to go.
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