One dawn calls out to another,
Smoke blows over smooth wheat...
I'm thinking of you, my dear,
My senile mother.
Walking up the hill, like you used to,
Clutching your crutch in hand,
You look at the stump of the moon
That drifts down the somnolent river.
And I know you're thinking bitterly,
Restlessly and very sadly,
That your son's soul doesn't ache at all
Over his native lands.
Then you walk up to the graveyard
And, staring point blank at a stone,
You sigh so sweetly and simply
Over my brothers and sisters.
Yes, we grew up knife-fighting,
And my sisters grew up like May -
Still, don't raise your vivid eyes
So sadly to the sky.
Enough grieving! Enough!
It's time for you to notice
That even an apple tree is sad
To lose its copper leaves.
Joy is a rare occurrence,
Like a morning murmur of spring.
And instead of rotting on branches,
I'd rather burn out in the wind.