The desert, when her sun comes up,
She cannot tell where heaven stopped and the Earth began,
The game of love is written in the fate of lucky ones,
God knows what is written there,
Nobody had been able to read it yet,
Nor understand it,
Only he has been able to so far.
The desert cannot be claimed or owned,
It is a piece of cloth carried by winds, never held down by stones,
She is flying around like a butterfly,
Flying about in perfect innocence,
With starry, glittery eyes full of longing,
A sweet smile playing on her lips.