There is the old mulberry tree,
still standing in the corner, alone without me.
The deep well is drying up;
there are no doves or butterflies to dance around.
But the mountain, ah, the sturdy WaselAabad mountain —
brave, cajoling —
remains the same as the memories of the prairie I still cherish.
He is gone —
the man with a big heart — Baba.
She is gone,
the woman with generous hands — Bobo.
Yet, they are there, above the village roof,
floating above the spring clouds,
smiling down on the greenery they once knew.
Would it be good again?
The sound of children, happy and blissful —
Would we hear it once more?
They wonder,
with their gentle hearts spread on the sheets of the clouds,
wishing to believe the impossible,
the purest feeling of life,
shining like the dawn over the dry land beneath them.