One Dawn Calls Out To Another

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.