If the world was more ,
and you speak of the truth,
Then the nice, fine gifts you offer might tempt me to go live with you and be your lover.
But the winter comes and moves your sheep from the field into the pen,
The cold sets in the river and rocks,
making all the songbirds leave,
While everyone starts to complain of what to expect this coming winter.
Winter comes and ruins the fields,
Which is unfortunate for you since you love spring, and hate fall since the crops rot.
All the gifts you gave to me.
They will have come to nothing but regret with age.
Even the things that are really expensive,
They don’t compel me to go live with you and be your lover.