One hillock often wish lie
Three times hardship without money
North land not my wish
East forest think my master
Gold burn cassia exhaust
Great ideal each year decline
Sun set cool wind come
Hear cicada still increase sorrow
I'd often like to lie atop a hill,
Instead I suffer hardship, lacking money.
This northern land was never what I wished,
Instead I think of my teacher in the eastern forest.
Golden flecks in the ash of cassia wood,
My great ideals decline more year by year.
As the sun goes down, a chilling wind appears,
To hear cicadas makes me sorrow more.