Days

I know when the cuckoos in the mountainsbuild their nestsI knew this long agoIf someone asks meon which cliffs the bees singto be honestI can easily answerWhen they talk about locust performancesthat fill the dreamlike sunlightof course they only buzzin the season we plant buckwheatAy, a person’s thoughtsare so peculiar sometimesI can guarantee this:If fate allows me to returnto my beautiful homelandeven with my eyes closed tightI could still differentiate whetherthe indistinct sounds in the distancewere the swaying skirts of young womenor the sheep and cattle chewing grass