When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to 
blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then, crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from 
nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild  glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school  underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to 
come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.

When the rains come they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves
rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their 
giant hands and the flower children rush out in dressed
of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the
stars are.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't
you know why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms;
they have their mother as I have my own.