On a sad Sunday with a hundred white flowers, I awaited for you my dear with a church prayer, That dream chasing Sunday morning, The chariot of my sadness returned without you,
Ever since then, Sundays are always sad, tears are my drink bread is my sorrow... Sad Sunday.
Last Sunday dear please come along, There will even be priest, coffin, catafalque, hearse-cloth. Even then flowers will be awaiting you, Flowers and coffin under blossoming (flowering in Hungarian) trees my journey shall be the last, My eyes will be open, so that I can see you one more time, Don't be frightened from my eyes as I'm blessing you even in my death... Last Sunday.\"
