Wind-whispered lullabies
Caress your apple cheeks.
The soft glow of moonrays
Light up your cow-brown eyes.
Resting on moss-covered branches,
You listen to the symphony of life.
Dew drops dance in the light of night
To the song of the Nightingale-bird.
You watch with rapt attention
Phoebe's bright ascension
In the black-drop of a purple midnight.
Do you hear the song they sing,
My child?
Do you hear the song just for you?
Listen to the voices of a dying tongue
And be lulled into slumber
As I once was.
"Mo bee dao gui ya ya
Ve song tou song tzak tou fa
Tou fa, Le fa buun ng tzak,
Mo tzak ngai ge miu dan fa,
Miu dan fa.
*Ngai liu buun ngai ji zhun moi ga!"
My native tongue is a dying language, but still I hope to show its beauty and finesse to my one-day children.
