Every time I felt a lack of freedom
The voice of the beloved son
When I was carting him around
I forgot
Being an esteemed daughter of a king

With head full of white snow butterflies
Constantly walking in the garden
Without knowing that the nectar is somewhere nearby
From my eyesight

A little bit faithful
A little bit noble
With a heart as big as a flower
With a taste as of a bee
When caressing the flowers
Hastily touching the thorns

Lately I get used to
Be heard more than my ear
The fruits taste like branch
Since by failing down
Feels different
From the fruit of the Spirit
Love dropping
Throughout Troy

Climb on the longing
Take a risk lass
Fragrance comes
When your fingers redden
Thorns made a sieve from your skin
And stratified it

Throughout the Balkans
For the lass of the garden
As well as for the king’s daughter