The day before mother sent me a letter,
She said: the spring when you’re not around hardly lasts,
Like the flowers do not desire to bloom,
The sun rays do not reach my heart.
Yesterday father sent me a letter,
He said: the summer when you’re not around is too dry,
Like the happiness at our doors do not reach our souls.
Tonight I wrote them a letter back,
I said: the autumn when I’m not besides you
Is too lonesome to be true,
The mild winds of the past have turned incomparably harsh.
The winter I’m not around
Is as quiet as it can be,
I’d wish to turn into a snowflake and fly to the place where you are.