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How regretful, in this human world:

what kind of thing is this so-called love

that makes people abide by it, dead or alive?

North and south between heaven and earth, the couple in flight:

how many cold and hot seasons have they flapped their old wings together through?

The taste of joy

and the misery of separation:

inside all are some crazy young men and women.

You should have something to say:

across layers of clouds that spread thousands of miles,

against the view of the hundreds of mountains at dusk,

a lonely shadow there: to whom are you going?

On a road that stands across the Fen River,

How dreary-sounding was the playing of flutes and drums back then!

Across the plains, there still stands the smoky mist in the wilderness.

Whose soul shall we summon in the Southland?

The Mountain Spirit cries to itself in wind and rain.

Even Heaven is jealous,

it's hard to believe that they have

turned into yellow soil along with orioles and swallows.

Rather they'll last for tens of thousands of ages,

waiting for poets

who sing wildly and drink like crazy

to come to visit this place, the Wild Goose Hillock.

-- "Song of the Wild Goose Hillock by Yuan Haowen", translated by Luo Yuming