Her house lies next to mine,
separated by a single bush-row.
We both live with lonesome
She keeps sadness hidden like mine
If only no bush-row
Sometimes, I must go round to hers.
I usually dream a sweet dream,
There’s a little bird flying by my doors.
Little bird! Little bird! I’ll call
Alight on the bushes and help me to find:
Why never we saw her smiles
As she dried clothes out the sunshine
She just gazed from afar
A little bird flew in her eyes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem