That old oak by the river
Has seen the sunlight
For too many winters
When spring is coming
I hear your voice
Calling from above
I have no choice
A raven flies over me
And i stand still
A nightingale sings
But i feel so ill
Of your golden hair
I have no trace
I stretch my arms
And i touch your face
As you came down
We heard a man
He had no fear when was shot dead
He had lost himself seeking goods
Early in the morning,
Bringing honey from the woods
He was brave but had no name
No fame is needed when in the grave
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