Wanderer, far from his homeland,
You are poor and you are alone,
For the time, deprived of listening
To the music of mother tongue.

Yet here nature is so magnificent,
That you’re not entirely lost.
Singing birds on the trees around you –
Would you call it a foreign tongue?

Only listening to the autumn flute,
The cicadas iridescent chime;
Only noticing of the dragon-shape
Big white clouds up in the skies, -

You’ll embrace what you have inherited –
The eternal sadness and pain.
In your dreams, you’ll sail away back home
With your eyes shielded from the sun.