I will miss you, Earth,
 
and your hundred million songs,
 
when I have to leave.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
are you composing new songs
 
for Christmas morning?

 
 
 

The autumn mountains,
 
their steep and stony pathways—
 
these will be my songs.

 
 
 

California drought—
 
on an autumn afternoon
 
we sing songs for rain.

 
 
 

Chilly autumn rain—
 
do you still have songs to sing,
 
little brown sparrow?

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
now that autumn has arrived,
 
you sing tiny songs.

 
 
 

Afghan refugees—
 
only the clothes on their backs
 
and some songs from home

 
 
 

In a time of plague
 
red roses in a white vase
 
take the place of songs.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
I have no use this morning
 
for your songs of joy.

 

 
 
 

On a desert path
 
songs leak out of the pebbles,
 
cries arise from thorns.