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If the mockingbirds begin not to sing.
And you shall see them withered up the tree.
Then mourn yourself to the one's decaying;
For death now hath come for souls to be free.

If leaves of blossoms and pines turned brown,
And too early for autumn they fallen.
Then lament yourself for the one's that down,
For death will yield all that are forgotten.

If the streams in the forest they flows not;
And fishes are thirst and there beds are dry.
Then grieve yourself for the one's yearned a lot,
For death will roweth even water's high.

If I gaze in the stars and I am smiling,
And cool breeze of nippy air is at hand.
Then cry yourself loud for I am leaving,
For death have followed on what I demand.