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.