In the shady forest, between the beech-trees

In the shady forest, between the beech-trees,

there's a hustling and bustling, and whispers are heard.

The flickering light of the fire dances

around colorful figures, leaves and rocks.

This is where the restless gypsies gather,

with flashing eyes and flowing hair,

suckled at the Nile's holy waters,

tanned by the blazing southern Hispanic sun.

Around the fire, amidst the lush green,

the men lie, wild and brave.

The women squat, preparing the meal,

busily filling the old goblet.

Folklore and tales are shared by the group,

songs as fantastic and colorful as the gardens of Spain.

Magic words for times of distress

are told by the old woman.

Black-eyed maidens begin the dance.

Red-glowing torches are sparkling.

To the enticing sounds of guitars and cymbals

the dancers are twirling in a wild dance.

Then, exhausted by the night's dancing, they lie down and rest.

The beech-trees are murmuring a lullaby.

Those once expelled from a homeland where they were happy

see the beloved land in their dreams.

When the morning awakes in the east

the beautiful images of the night fade away.

At dawn the mule paws at the ground.

The gypsies depart - who knows where they are going?