On spungolden horseshoes the autumn is galloping through.
A wind with red blood on its fingers gropes every hue
And sings over fields a sad drunken ballad of old.

A gypsy band huddles together like sheep in a fold
Around sunset's bonfire, spraying its sparks all about.
A heart weeps away in the broad sorrow-dome and goes out …

An old gypsy sits, with an earring of fine silver leaf,
With a knife from his belt he unravels his hoary gray grief,
The dark cores of his eyes fill with blood, but no fear:

— Hey brothers, dear brothers, I see how the end's coming near
To our gypsy race. We shall sink in abyss and expire,
We shall be extinguished, die out, like the sparks of our fire.

Strum all mandolins! Let us scatter our dance to the wind!
Let us plait burning thorns into wreathes on our head, let them spin
Till the wintery snow covers up every spark, every trace.

For then there will be in this world no more gypsy race,
And only the howling wide steppe and the trees in the vale
Will see us in dreams and will tell of our colorful tale.

On spungolden horseshoes the autumn is galloping through.
A wind with red blood on its fingers gropes every hue
And sings over fields a sad drunken ballad of old.

A gypsy band huddles together like sheep in a fold.