You are cooing, howling, knocking windows along the street,
Waking me from my hollow, hollow dreams:
Hollow as a summer pond, tenuous as mist.

One hundred stories you have to tell
And each one hundred times:
About the valley where you once dwelled,
About your long-lost paradise.

Don’t you worry, my eager, eager storyteller,
For each leaf in the yard is your listener:
Look how they nod in agreement
And mutter out comfort when your cries become fierce.

Drop by my balcony anytime you want,
And we can converse all night long.
I’ll prepare a cup of tea as my welcome,
And see you off in the rising sun.

Hope you come with sorrow,
But leave with a song.