English Rendering
For ten long years the living of the dead knows nought.
Should the dead be forgot
And to mind never brought?
Her lonely grave is a thousand miles away.
To whom can I my grief convey?
Revived e'en if she be,could she still know me?
My face is worn with care
And frosted is my hair.
Last night I dreamed of coming to my native place:
She's making up her face
At the window with grace.
We gazed at each other hushed,
But tears from our eyes gushed.
When I am woken,I fancy her heart-broken
On the mound clad with pines,
Where only the moon shines.
