The olive tree in a dream is full of fruit
The fruit falls without a sound
Smelling the aroma of buckwheat ale, makes one want to drink
Upon drinking
One thinks of the affairs of the ancestors
They put images of fire and fate
Cut into the rock, and then
Facing the rock danced barefoot
Silently murmuring

Bitten by a wild boar the hunter lies on the hillock
Look at the fence at the bottom of the hill turning into arms
Shaking like long bitter vines of thorns
The setting sun
Dowsing women to become scarlet apparitions

Old people on the edge of death
See through the surroundings of emptiness
Spilling the last bowl of wine
Offering it to the mountain spirit
The coffins of the dead are placed on the water
Amidst prayers and songs
Drift away as a dream-soul

At a moment like this
Among the reddish brown dim of the Southern Highlands
It is impossible to say clearly
Whether the wandering clan belong to the sun or the stars
If one makes a gesture
A great deal of pain and pleasure
Could again be like smoke and clouds