Song For A Reed Flute

Now on us the pollen from a catkin is raining.
And onto us the ice float flies down, hurly-burly, spring;
Flying out from under the wings of a hen
Come a swarm of chicks, hungrily peeping.

God, let even the littlest among them
Find the smallest seeds on your earth in spring!
In an evil time it is only a man
Who may sustain himself by hopes and dreams.