Classic Poem

Spilling oceans and tearing my breast
I've come from the hills
singing songs of a moment
with my three-stringed fiddle.

I made friends with the waves
and discovered their rhythms.
From the ear into the heart
today I've brought a nest.

I bring the magic of the gone-before,
I am the daughter of today.
I bring tidings of the after-time,
my eyes a burning flame.

Sweet fiddle scraping
that dwells in all,
the sleeper in the strings
I waken with my singing.

I wander from yard to yard—
a little colored bird—
always asking for
a handful of rice like pearls.

Child youth and old man sway
to my simple singing
and bring a few handfuls
of grain like tears.