To the blades of green grass, where my little feet once did tread, to the river flowing over, a thousand and one year old bed, I’ll return ere break of day, on the last day of May.
With the people that I once called my friend, and with the people that I still do, and even with those whom I truly dread, I’ll go on a tour ere break of day, to see some long forgotten bay.
My fun which was ended in mid-stride, my peace that was extinguished so abruptly, my life which was forced to hide, will come back to me ere break of day, and I’ll once again be cheerful and gay.
As for you my dear, I will realize, all our dreams that we dreamed all day and night, and all our innocent thoughts with no vice, we’ll think again ere break of day, by the light of the moon’s last ray.
But that day is nowhere in sight, so I continue my long and weary fight, and tread along this tiring road, without any sign or direction board, to my supposed paradise.
What will happen by the end of May, there is nothing definite to say, but of one thing I am absolutely sure, that I’ll be whole and my joy will be pure, on the last day of May, when I’ll return ere break of day.