On the edge of the world, gazing yonder,
Breezing along, never falling over,
They who under the moon flower,
Whom the wind lulls hither and thither...

They chime like small hallowed bells,
Tolling a prayer at sunset,
Their choir tints, echoes, knells,
Ripples through the summer air of a hamlet.

The people look up from the toil and the river,
And pause to listen to the nostalgic ring,
Suddenly one is once again running to one's mother,
Bearing flowers and smiles, across a clearing.

Now the evening cicadas lull one into apathetic bliss.
A dangerous melancholy exhudes from them like a perfume,
Carried by a soft Eastern wind, soft like a lover's kiss.
Now one wishes one could die with them and bloom,
Bloom and flower and accompany the white lillies,
Into the earth.

Looking up from among the evanescent scents,
One sees an expanse above, deep and boundless,
Flowing like a black sea, traversed by mystical currents.
The moon is an island, lost amidst the emptiness,
From whose shore twinkling coral can be seen
Dotting the horizon like a swarm of fireflies.