Loibere risen from the boimen to the valley of the stan blot ir este.
Blomen know this sint
vurtorben al,
beautiful what you see.
Sus twinget de rife maniger hands
Root sal,
I'm really sad about that.
Now I grab it:
The wind is so cold,
The landlord is now vroide practiced.
Help me sound a hundred tusent
vroiden mer,
whom my blood can bring.
Rosen de vallen to my vrowen
red ler, that's where I want sing.
Twings me in the heart, at my roots
smackes ger
de sint in ir libe strowet.
If I woo you, I'm threatened.
I vroiden mer,
sus de minningliche me vrowet.

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