My Song

Do not sing My song. I must sing this song Myself, And then die. This song is more soiled than the earth, As old as the sun, For many births I have had to live The weight of its words. No one else has the ability To bring voice to it. This song was born with me, And will die with me. I must sing this song Myself, And then die. This song has a rare melody, It is filled with pain. It is like the shriek of cranes Heard from distant mountains in autumn. Or the clamor of birds in a forest, Heard in a chaste dawn. Or the sound of the wind flowing through high grasses Heard on a black night. I must sing this song Myself, And then die. When I and my songs Both die, They who inhabit separation-houses Will seek out my grave. With one voice, They will declare, 'Only a very few are fated To shoulder such pain.' Do not sing This song of mine. I must sing this song Myself, And then die.