Forest

	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.