Foolish is he who doesn't understand A legend tells Of a gypsy 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."
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 gypsy man's son And I will not put up with that."
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.
And on 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.