I hear a rustle in the birches and I feel the wind rising,
rising on these open meadows, on the long lakeshore.
The breezes sing for my baby, rocking the cradle,
lulling my little bird to sleep.
And the hushabye wish that they made for the child
was that the moon might rise golden to watch over it.
I hear the birches rustling, I feel the wind rising;
many a rain has yet to fall, many a breeze is yet to come.
Yes, I can hear the birches rustling: the gentle rustling
of the birches, the soft whisper of the grass.
Lyrics of Milja
Varttina
