Evening (Ferenc Móra)

It's evening, it's evening,
Grandpa is tired -
My golden-haired daughter,
You make my bed.

You gently caress
Soften the doughnut,
Even the wind in my bed
You sit here now.

The sadness on my forehead
He was very overwhelmed,
With your little mouth about it
Put the problem away.

Your flower head
Throw it over my heart,
Laugh into the night
Put a star in it.

Tell us a story
For your poor dad,
As if you were telling a story
For your hairy baby:

"There was a poor man
To the big fairyland,
There was no copy, just a
Golden-haired daughter..."