Yi Kyu Bo.
The cock crows in his thatched house by the river.
I know that dawn draws near.
The moon grows pale.
Black are the ripples passing, one by one,
Like shadows through the white bridge of the moon.
The dawn breeze wakes where drooping willows sway.
Out of the silence comes a distant song,
Nearer and nearer.
The midnight fishermen are going home.
White are their garments as the white reed flowers,
One with white moonbeams.
Are they ghosts or men?
I cannot tell. Their singing dies away.