The mice are eating all the food!
They must be sent away,
We cannot kill, so we will ride,
For many a long day.
Old people laugh:
"They will come back,
They always do," they cry.
"How can you tell?" the young ones ask,
"The same to every eye?"
"We'll mark them with a daub of paint,
Bright red upon their back."
The mice are caught
And marked, each one,
Then carried in a sack.
A long, long ride,
The mice released,
The journey home is fast,
With peaks and rivers,
Dales and hills,
No mice could ever pass.
The days go by, the young ones mock,
"Where are the little mice?"
Three weeks have gone,
The table's laid, with tsampa and with meat,
A movement in the empty room,
The flash of tiny feet,
A grey shape climbs a table leg,
And lifts a tiny head,
A smell of food,
The whiskers twitch,
This mouse will be well fed.
The sharp teeth bite.
The mouse is joined
By others, weak and thin,
The same grey coats,
And bright black eyes,
Red daubs upon their skin.
CULTURE
