Riding a Mule

Cry no more, wild geese,
cry no more your croaking cries as you fly.
The wind has died down, so do not go,
passing one village, then two, do not go far away;
why did folk say such things in times long gone?
Cry no more, snipe,
and evening primrose, no longer bloom
only in summer nights,
short-lived sparks from the bellows,
crimson sparks from the bellows.
 

The mule is dead, where has it gone?
The sky is so bright, so near.
The clover, the wild cress,
and the skylark too,
are so near, the stars too in the night.
Fixing a tiny bell to liver and lungs,
the mule is dead, where has it gone?