The grave of Monchak

I’ve forgotten which year, which autumn it was, In our land, the first snow always falls with a pause. Anyway, the year when Monshak returned, A village in Taiketken began to be discerned. The dark soil of the earth, Calls out from afar, a sign of rebirth. “People are moving here,” it seems to say, The black birds sit, not far away. The frogs of Taiketken croak and hum, The wind carries their words, far they become. Chattering, they say, “There’s more to come: Tomorrow, this village will surely grow some!” Time passed by, unnoticed, without a trace, Birds came, water flowed, gardens embraced. The only grave at the top of the hill, Saw its numbers grow, just as it will. Filling the streets with their melodious song, I don't know how many birds came along. Bidding farewell, they left that high place, Gradually, the villagers moved, leaving no trace. I don't know what joys there are in the neighboring land, Old and young take their share from that land. At the center, Monshak sat in command, Having built his cemetery with his hand. Thinking of the streets crowded and tight, This village truly grew in the day and night. As I wandered that village, I met, The fathers and mothers I had once met. This fleeting life passes in the blink of an eye, People leave on a long journey don't say goodbye. The cemetery atop the hill, you see, Are the places we’ll forever be. Though we fall in love with the white light above, We don’t know which village our fate will shove. Growing every day, the sun stretches wide, Don't forget your neighbor, and with them, abide.