In my village, another year has gone floating by;
is there any place where we do not lament the passing seasons?
The songs of the birds echo in the valley,
sounds scattered in fragments.
The dew-streaked chrysanthemums invade the steps,
their shadows perfectly round.
When I am free of illness, I watch the emerald waters;
deeply moved, I lie all day in the grey mist.
At sunset, the herdboy's flute seems to match my mood:
I strain some wine, and invite my neighbor
to share this mysterious joy.