So he is listening to the whooshing of the rain
Let him go to his not-too-long-ago seen master
Early morning I look up at the sky
Fine pocket knife, the rough-bread is being cut
Little calf's trouble has also been cut here
Early morning I look at the sky
My little angel

So he, she is listening to the whooshing of the rain
Let him go to his not-too-long-ago seen master
Early morning I look at the sky
There is a bird, who will carry away
My little angel

I am buried in it alive, alive
I am turning yellow, heavily
Mommy (meaning 'wife'), I will write when I am free

My little angel

So he is listening to the whooshing of the rain
There is a bird, who will carry away

My little angel

Early morning I look upward at the sky
So he is listening to the whooshing of the rain
There is a bird, who will carry away
Let him go to his not-too-long-ago seen master