At Lai Family Village, the spring is beautiful:
the sun setting over a deserted hill,
mist rising against a clear sky.
Willow branches, so gentle, their green still young;
flower buds everywhere, red and elegant.
On paths through the fields—dishes of offerings
for the festival;
beyond a low wall—children playing on swings.
This place, where I rode my bamboo horse happily
as a child,
I pass again, hair turned white, lost in thought.