English Rendering
The pavilion’s side, Where the old road lies,
Sweet grass, so blue, they touch the skies.
Eve winds kiss willows, the pipe’s waning trills,
The sun sets over hills and hills.
The verge of the skies, Lands’ end or beyond,
Dear friends half scattered, withered, gone.
A ladle of rough wine, what’s left of joy, we drain;
Parted, tonight, lorn dreams in vain.
