Cuckoo sang the cuckoo birds
over the paddy fields
ten thousand voices rang in the woods --
birds in the new-greening hills
My brother rode away to town
on a horse the color of milk
he told me to wait and soon I should own
a beautiful ribbon of silk
The harvest is in, the fields have turned brown
but from my brother, no word.
The only news is the whispering sound
of leaves rustling down in the wood.
