Between the Carpathians and Black Sea
The fields of Baragan are lying
Vast plains as far as you can see
No hills, no woods!

The spring has past
The water from the melted snow has past
In the lowland the summer has begun
Dead heat, no rain, dead heat

Under the burning sun
The flocks of sheep are wandering
The roots of the plants are desperate searching
For the essence of life

The heavy clouds are passing
Heading to the mountains forests
The sun is hidding
As the majestic night falls

Up in a locust tree
The nightingale whispers
The most graceful song
As the moon lights the burning fields of Baragan.