On the sky-hid uplands of Kansu,
Where the Sampo winds
Among pale purple asters, lit-blood poppies,
And rosy twinkling primulas,
There lived a little boy named Foo,
Motherless and unfriended.
One evening as the sun went down he stood
Before the gaunt, bare cliff, Jing Ko,
And called aloud and said:
“Mother, where art thou?”
And out of the dusky shadows
Came a threefold echo,
Wave upon wave, ringing
With tender throbs of memory,
And Foo believed it was his mother’s voice,
Answering his call from her high dwelling
On the shadowy ledge above the eagle’s nest.
And when the evening cow-bells tinkled
In the valley and the tired day-god went to rest,
Foo would stand before Jing Ko and call aloud
And listen to his mother’s answer:
“Thou… thou… thou.”
One day came Hilpi, the sister of his mother,
And kissed him and took him to her home,
Down in the smoke-roofed village of Lil-Cho.
And Foo ran out at evening to the village green
And called aloud as was his wont:
“Mother, where art thou?”
No answer came, and little Foo shouted again
And yet again,
And still he called, until the chamber
Of his speech was shattered—and he died.
Even today the pilgrim lays a tear—
Offering on the mute grave of little Foo,
Nestled among pale purple asters,
Lit-blood poppies, and rosy twinkling primulas,
On the sky-hid uplands of Kansu.
Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)
Only a Singing Bird
