A place under the sun, damp, cold
Many things can only be silently imagined
There, sheep bleat ba! ba!
The wind blows off the hillside
Children nibble on their mother’s barren breasts, listening to the highland singers’
Faint songs, an autumnal flavor
Day by day seeps into the forest, imagination rouses the wing feather
Innumerable fruit like stones fill the hillside with rolling movement
The sound of the shepherd’s flute in the vacuity of dusk bit by bit freezes

A place under the sun, freedom and dreams
In a distant land roam, eyes praying for rain sorely
With the sky crack, weeds border every road leading home
Madly growing, the sun is only thus serene
There, singers and tears water pomegranates and
Olives, thus their bitterness has a profound aftertaste
Men, knife at their side and hunter’s gun in hand, on horseback journey far
Hillside after hillside of wild buckwheat in the women’s
Ballads grow and are cut, cut and grow again
There, the lovers’ gaze amongst the sound of invocations
Stir up, the rainy season follows lofting away
The farthest point of every road’s wooden railing, all have an old broken-down
Tile and board hut, every distant traveler walks inside
Wine bowls, hearth, and village fire dances, will warm their unforgettable experience

A place under the sun, I am often
Stung by people’s poisonous arrows of gossip
Gazing towards home far away, I have always believed
The soil breeds fairy tales, friendship and goodness
Sing the homeland songs, tears well up and fall
Relatives cry out, though a sandstorm blurs the distance, your eyes
Will fill with sorrow, but we should still
Live, bequeathing love to this world