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Where the streams wind and the wind is always sighing,
Hoary gray mice scurry among abandoned roof tiles.
No one knows the name of the prince who once owned this house.
Standing there, even now, under the hanging cliffs.
In dark rooms ghost-green fires are shining.
Beside the ancient battered road a melancholy stream flows
downhill.
Then, from the flutes of the forest come a thousand voices,
The colors of autumn are f re shin the wind and the rain.
Though the virgins have all gone their way to the yellow graves,
Why is it that paintings still hang on the walls?
Charioteers of gold chariots - all have gone.
There remain of these ancient days only the stone horses.
Sorrow comes and sits on the spreading grass.
All the while singing, I am overwhelmed with lamentation.
Among these lanes of life disappearing in the distance,
Who can make hims elf eternal?