The rim of the moon
is over the corn. 
The beetle's drone
is above the thorn. 
Grey days come soon
and I am alone;
Can you hear my moan
where you rest, Aroon? 

When the wild tree bore
the deep blue cherry,
In night's deep pall
our love kissed merry. 
But you come no more
where its woodlands call,
and the grey days fall
on my grief, Asthore! 

The rim of the moon
is over the corn. 
The beetle's drone
is above the thorn. 
Grey days come soon
and I am alone;
Can you hear my moan
where you rest, Aroon?