Golden Crown на весеннем гитарнике

In the forest at the dawn there’s golden fog, In the forest at the dawn there’re silent trees. Here I used to walk alone very long before, Telling stories to myself, dreaming fair dreams. Oh, these hills were mountains lost in curly clouds, Oh, this wood was very old and full of ancient magic. I was a prince from a fairy tale, and these woody lands Were my own enchanted kingdom, so I imagined. My imaginary folk was ideal folk. They were strong, and they were brave, they were all around. But my heart was in the lowland in a three days’ walk — There she lived, my fair Ann, beloved but still uncrowned. Oh, I climbed these woody hills up and up and then Stared from the very top down at crowdy town, Where she lived, my lady Ann — real little Ann Whom I’d promised made of fog magic golden crown. Now I’m no longer kid, nor am I a prince. I’ve had several fair ladies and a fair wife. But here I am again, among silent ancient trees At the very starting point of my whole life. Sun is climbing slowly up in the cobalt sky. Morning air’s getting clear, fog is now gone. Only tiny piece of it hasn’t died — Shining softly in my hands little golden crown.