Day has her covert disease,
Spreading in a silent pace.
Soar, soar, my aimless eagle.
As hovering angel slowly comes
Down from the paradise.

Night has his burning eyes,
Lighting up the endless dark.
Flee, flee, my dying candle.
As blazing fire gradually perishes
Together with the grassland.

How many times have they vanished,
Then reappeared like newborn infants?
How many times have they echoed,
Then faded out in the lonesome air?
Dance if you have never danced that way;
Leave before all the maples turn red.