English Rendering
The sun and moon will not slow doom;
Four seasons press each other on.
The chilly wind strips trees away;
Fallen leaves strewn along the way.
My health turns weak with worsened fate;
My black hair has whitened of late.
Of age my head bears the pale sign,
My forward way on the decline.
My home becomes an inn for rest;
The dweller's rather like a guest.
Oh, where, oh, where can I still go?
To the graveyard 'neath southern hill.