Forest - Robert Wyatt

Deep in the forest

the omens are bad,

a cloud passes over the moon

Devil Wind

bends the trees,

a cloud passes over the moon.

And the moon takes a peep

when the Gypsy girl sings,

and her song rises up

from the dark to the light,

like smoke to the sky,

when the Gypsy girl sings

at the river’s edge.

Deep in the forest

the omens are bad,

a cloud passes over the moon.

White wolf waits,

grey wolf howls

at the girl by the river’s edge.

The bullet head boys

with their baby blue eyes,

their donner und blitzen,

the lily white gadje

religiously hatching their plots

in the eyries of eagles.

But the moon’s keeping watch

at the Gypsy girl sings,

sees her song rising up

like smoke to the sky

from the dark to the light,

when the Gypsy girl sings

at the river’s edge.

Like the sun on the forest

her song rises up, from

the ashes of Auschwitz,

the death camp at Lety,

the white cliffs of Dover,

the song of the Roma

lives on and on…

Trees grow tall

though the winds blow cold,

tall trees grow.

Tall trees grow

where the cold wind blow,

trees grow tall.