Autumn at Longtan Bay

The red maple of late autumn has ceased to burn

The rust-colored cliffs were Shouting

Is not that mountain of fire raging above my brow?

Now it's gone, and it leaves us empty

We celebrate at night, we loosen the throat

The blade of the knife was cold against my chest

The horses, surrounded by ten ribs, had stopped crying

The bride on the distant hillside stopped trembling

Shall I run along the branches, in the direction of death?

And I would redeem my pot of boiling blood for a wild maple tree?

Would I lift my face in the interval of crying?

I'm gonna bury the burnt bones of my fingers in the ground? !

Now the autumn light is deep, and the dead grey sparrows are in the ashes

Standing tall again, my sackcloth tucked beneath the mountain fire

And the whole burning mountain is my precious bookshelf!