The nightingale sings its final song,

A verse, so forlorn, to mourn,

The passing of the night;

As golden rays peep over the horizon

The village comes alive,

Gone is the dirge of the owl,

In its stead is the sparrow's joyful trills,

And the sparrow begins its flight;

As if by the hand of some invisible alchemist

The silver sands of the coast

Are transformed into molten gold

And a sampan slides into the ocean

With the first dawning light.


Somewhere in the silent dawn,

A cockerel wearily opens an eye

And wakes the still-slumbering children

Who are lost in dreams of sweet, carefree joy,

And rise to begin their morning's play;

The fishermen drag in their nets at sea,

Listening to the seagulls' plaintive cries

Wrinkled hands hauling in their bounty

As their wives toil in the sun-kissed golden paddy fields,

Not so very far away;

Come the twilight,

And the sweetness of dusk,

They return with sweat-drenched bodies, 

Content with their lot in life, 

And in their beds they lie, 

To await the dawning of the new day.