Front hills, back hills, lofty and steep; funeral carts rumble past day after day.
Dirges full of hidden grief fill the ravines; hearers secretly grieve to the "Song of the Dew on the Shallots."
One sound of a dirge, a parting for a thousand years; filial sons and obedient grandsons vainly weep tears of blood.
What in this world can remain solid and secure? Even the great ocean and Mount Sumeru are ground to dust in the end.
Human life is like dew, easily dried by the sun; since time began, all meetings end in parting.
The sea of sorrows and grief never ceases, let alone the hundred years that race by like a startling dream.
The departed drift far away, never to return; people today do not understand the intent of the ancients.
They plant pines and raise stones to guard the tomb gate, wishing to make long-term plans for the dead.
The soul drifts afar, the body turns to earth; the five destinies are vast, revolving like a well wheel.
People today are still buried in ancient graves; new graves and old graves have no fixed owners.
The millions within the city of Luoyang all end as dust beneath Beimang Mountain.
Bewitched, they do not reckon the road of return; for your sake I sit alone in long sorrow and bitterness.
In the past, seeing others off, we wept on the long road; now they are lonely graves lying amidst fragrant grass.
Demonic foxes burrow holes to hide their young; ploughmen sift through bones searching for pearls and treasure.
Old trees rustle, generating wild winds; ruined mounds east and west stretch to the clear sky.
The Cold Food Festival has passed, who now offers sacrifice? Lone red flowers by the graveside bloom in寂寞.
Sun and moon urge each other on like flying arrows; rich and poor, all return to oblivion, just like this.
How can we roam together in the Land of Eternal Bliss, where even after kalpa-fires there is no birth or death?