Перепостила запись у себя и мне вот уже английский вариант текста подбросили Son of the moon Foolish is he who doesn't understand.
A legend tells of a gipsy woman Who pleaded with the moon until dawn. Weeping she begged At the break of dawn To marry a gipsy man.
"You'll have your man, tawny skin," Said the full moon from the sky. "But in return I want the first child That you have with him. Because she who sacrifices her child So that she is not alone, Isn't likely to love it very much."
Chorus: Moon, you want to be mother, But you cannot find a love Who makes you a woman. Tell me, silver moon, What you intend to do With a child of flesh. A-ha-ha, a-ha-ha, Son of the moon.
From a cinnamon-skinned father A son was born, White as the back of an ermine, With grey eyes instead of olive -- Moon's albino child. "Damn his appearance! This is not a gipsy man's son And I will not put up with that."
Chorus
Believing to be dishonoured, The gipsy went to his wife, A knife in his hand. "Whose son is this? You've certainly fooled me!" And he wounded her mortally. Then he went to the woodlands With the child in his arms And left it behind there.
Chorus
And the nights the moon is full It is because the child Is in a good mood. And if the child cries, The moon wanes To make it a cradle. And if the child cries, The moon wanes To make it a cradle.
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29.12.2009 в 07:12и
www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBDaBWsgJaU
еще её варианты=)
мне она очень нравится тоже
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29.12.2009 в 09:18Son of the moon
Foolish is he who doesn't understand.
A legend tells of a gipsy woman
Who pleaded with the moon until dawn.
Weeping she begged
At the break of dawn
To marry a gipsy man.
"You'll have your man, tawny skin,"
Said the full moon from the sky.
"But in return I want the first child
That you have with him.
Because she who sacrifices her child
So that she is not alone,
Isn't likely to love it very much."
Chorus:
Moon, you want to be mother,
But you cannot find a love
Who makes you a woman.
Tell me, silver moon,
What you intend to do
With a child of flesh.
A-ha-ha, a-ha-ha,
Son of the moon.
From a cinnamon-skinned father
A son was born,
White as the back of an ermine,
With grey eyes instead of olive --
Moon's albino child.
"Damn his appearance!
This is not a gipsy man's son
And I will not put up with that."
Chorus
Believing to be dishonoured,
The gipsy went to his wife,
A knife in his hand.
"Whose son is this?
You've certainly fooled me!"
And he wounded her mortally.
Then he went to the woodlands
With the child in his arms
And left it behind there.
Chorus
And the nights the moon is full
It is because the child
Is in a good mood.
And if the child cries,
The moon wanes
To make it a cradle.
And if the child cries,
The moon wanes
To make it a cradle.