Riding a Mule
Cry no more, wild geese,
cry no more your croaking cries as you fly.
The wind has died down, so do not go,
passing one village, then two, do not go far away;
why did folk say such things in times long gone?
Cry no more, snipe,
and evening primrose, no longer bloom
only in summer nights,
short-lived sparks from the bellows,
crimson sparks from the bellows.
cry no more your croaking cries as you fly.
The wind has died down, so do not go,
passing one village, then two, do not go far away;
why did folk say such things in times long gone?
Cry no more, snipe,
and evening primrose, no longer bloom
only in summer nights,
short-lived sparks from the bellows,
crimson sparks from the bellows.
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