Gusty winds, sky-high clouds, and woeful apes howl,
where birds are hovering over the clear-sanded shaol.
Down the falling leaves from vast forest are rustling,
on and on the endless Long River is rolling in gale.
How many sad autumns have I spent far away from home;
in this my late day now the ill-ridden I climb up the mountain alone.
Hardship and poverty have made my hair all turn gray,
also make me quit drinking with which I used to let off my steam.