The silver colored wind is being blown,
Aiming for the distant sky.
The harmony I could hear before moonrise,
Is a very serene song.
The trees reach toward the stars on the horizon,
'Cause that's the short cut to the end.
The harmonies of the seven counties,
Even when the day comes when everyone will leave from here,
I won't forget.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem