English Rendering
Every thing has its resting place;
Alone the cloud’s drifting in vain.
Melting in air, it leaves no trace.
When can we see its glow again?
Morning clouds rise from mist of night,
All birds fly to welcome the day.
One in the woods is late in flight
But early on its homeward way.
I’ll keep to beaten track of yore,
Though from hunger and thirst not free.
There’re no connoisseurs any more.
Why should poverty sadden me?