Farmer, behold my little son,
One day he will grow to eat rice from the earth.
O God, look—my child sleeps in peace,
Soft as the evening breeze.
Son, do you dream of being cradled
In the lap of gentle Malokudevi?
Do you see the Bodhi leaves swaying in the night wind,
Glistening softly under the silver moonlight?
Do you dream of the Blessed One,
Preaching by the river in Sri Lanka,
From a humble ferry gliding on the waters?
Ah, that must be why your lips curve in such sweet smiles,
In the tender glow of your dreams, my son.
