A brook is running
down the slope,
busilly talking
to itself.

On a cherry tree branch
the nightingale sings,
Making hearts swoon,
making breaths short,
with sweetness and delight.
red are the cherries
red as the blood
that ran down its breast
to save the king of China.

On the north slopes of Parnasus
buldozers work
dynamite detonations
rock its roots,
the mountain
is stripped bare
raped of its boxite
for aluminum.

The trilling stops,
the bird flies
higher than its song
and disappears.
The warbling waters
fall down a chasm,
and can be heard no more.
 
 

would that the king lived.