My sisters in the garden;
her fine hair spreading wider, she
opens up her face to me

Shy little thing.

My brothers in the fields,
their bodies stretching higher,
reaching reaching touch the sun

So quick to claim the hour.

Who can hear them speak?

Ah, I have heard a thousand voices
listened to a thousand songs
but here they sound so different, so
familiar. I think:
they must be kin to me.

For who but a sister could understand
who else would strain to hear the noise of the field
when the wind sweeps over it;

to whom else would my sister show her face?

Who else but a grower thinks:
They must be kin to me.