A Little Story

Little crickets are in the fields Hidden under the bushes. How beautifully they sing Without appearing. They tell stories unceasingly, Singing until out of breath. They talk about green grass, Birds and trees, Mention the rising sun, moonlight, The sweet breeze. In the tender quietness of the night, Many stories they tell. Nobody listens to their stories, Nobody understands. They scream blue-murder, Nobody hears. Little crickets, Don't get tired. There must be some people Listening to your stories, Assimilating them with pleasure, Longing for the new ones, Passing by your private houses. But it is not enough for you, Talking about birds and trees, Mentioning the rising sun, moonlight. Madly you exhaust your little bodies And scrape your sad story Tightly into nature. The sad story is much bigger Than the crickets, so little. There'll come a day When you'll stay in the past With your stories from nature's book. Then nobody will know, And nobody will hear a bit Of your stories so sweet Fide ERKEN