The silver river flows quietly
In the kingdom of evening green spring.
The sun sets behind the wooded mountains.
The golden horn floats out of the moon.
The West is covered with a pink ribbon,
The plowman returned to the hut from the fields,
And beyond the road in the thicket birch
The song of love was sucked into a nightingale.
Listens to deep songs affectionately
From the west, a pink ribbon is dawn.
Looks tenderly at the distant stars
And the earth smiles at the sky.