The sun is rising in your hair, my child,
and I can't stay the noon.
I can see the first light in your eyes,
but I will not long sun in it. Not long.

When you awake, should I not be there,
go to the yard and watch the morning birds.
taste the dew which they so praise
and smell the green they stumble in.

Come the noon, go to the street.
See a laborer melting in his skin;
hear his pick ax echo strike by strike.
See a child and hear his ratapatting feet
slap him down the asphalt of an alley.
See a young man slouched, an old man down.
See house dressed ladies lounged on back door steps.
Hear the constant bumble of the high rise air.

Then come evening, in my absence, close your eyes
and you will hear a dulcimer.
You will hear a flute and strings
and an ancient song, when you close your eyes.

I leave these things for you, my child,
should we never meet again.
They have been my joy and sorrow.
You will know me knowing them.