The color of night spreads across the hill, the air chills
In the village, those long lost sheep
Again mystically roam beside the buckwheat fields
At this moment, the wooden doors open
Relations breathe deeply, becoming a bit lazy

An ethnic group’s evening begins like this
The hearth is alight
Those log houses strewn about the hill
In musing on the Southern Highlands, gently sway
The aroma of strong wine and orchid tobacco
Breach the fence of the weighty hour, wafting away

The flame dances, an ethnic group
From beginning to end sitting together
From night’s eyes glimpsing day break
Those on horseback, from distant lands
Can enter any open wooden door they wish
Warm their bodies, drink a bowl of wine
Songs of friendship unceasingly flow down the River of the Ages

Immersed in the wind of myth, old people’s faces at peace
The children have gone, with seeds of love
Scattering them along the mountain ridges of faraway places
One day looking back
The distance between them and the hearth, ever increasing
Just as the infant’s umbilical cord, who was it that cut it

Those, curled up in sleep
Chase love and antelopes in their dreams
A dreamscape transforms into another dreamscape
The hearth burns crickle-crackle
Who is it, lured by the spirits hand led wandering
Overjoyed, and distressed . . . . .
Under the boundless starry sky, thinking of the hearth
At this gentle and rueful moment
I somehow feel fortunate