The golden grove has finished talking
In its birchen, joyful tongue
And cranes, sorrowfully flocking
Away, don"t grieve for anyone.

For whom to grieve? Each man is just a pilgrim in this world - 
Walks by, comes in and leaves again one day.
Only a hemp-field and the crescent moon over a pond    
Dream of all people passed away.
 
I stand alone amid the naked field,
The cranes are carried by the wind into the distance,
With thoughts of my light-hearted youth I"m filled 
But nothing in it makes me sorry for an instant.  

Neither I"m sorry for the years spent in vain,
Nor for the lilac blossom of my soul,
A fire of a rowan-tree burns by a country lane
But doesn"t make me warm at all.                                     

The rowan trusses won"t burn out,
The yellowness will not destroy the crop,
The way a tree drops softly leaves about
The melancholic words I drop.

And if the wind of time, when I am gone,
Rakes them together in one needless ball...
You say like this... that in a lovely tongue
The golden grove has said it all.