Eponymous to an eternal spring,
Cranes cry and spread their wings,
In the lake's reflection that freezes time,
My reflection gets ever older, like wine.

As their wings flutter and flutter,
My knees have become soft as butter.
When they come to drink its water,
The lake blesses them with youth again
And as they leave and build their nests,
My reflection ages with unrest.

As I lay my pained back to a willow,
And I sit on the soft ground,
The lake begins to whisper:
"My gift is not for you, my friend
For you are a stranger,
And all my friends that come to visit,
Perhaps once, every year,
They let me know that man is not yet initiated
In the beauty of the song of the wind ."

Enlightened, I lift myself from the ground,
There is only silence. I think I have become deaf,
The wind gently touches my face, in regret,
Again, I stare at my reflection, forever still,
And again, it's getting older, only this time,
It is also getting ill.