Classic Poem

A lone cuckoo
that hatched out
among the
bush warbler's eggs,
you do not cry
with a voice like your father's,
you do not cry
with a voice like your mother's,
but over the fields
where the deutzia blooms
you fly round and round,
crying till the echoes ring,
scattering the blossoms
of the orange tree.
But though you cry all day
your song is good to hear —
I'll give you gifts, my bird —
don't fly too far away
but go on living
in the orange tree
that flowers by my house

ENVOY

When skies darken
and rain falls in the night,
cuckoo,
you go on crying,
my admirable bird