There are rows of green hills, and straw mushrooms are blooming everywhere. I walk slowly with firewood on my back, wearing it on my head at sunset. The clouds in the sky are white, the fish in the water are behaving well, and the reed pipe is playing to the other side of the mountain, who is clapping their hands. This is my home, here is my love, and I will write down the stories my father told me. This is my home, here is my love, the song my mother sang, I will sing it beyond the mountains...