At Gobi, the farthest corner of the desert,
I dream of a fragrance of indigo dress, alone.
　

Are the nipples of girls
who pass the embankment laughing
faintly reddened?
　

In the vally of stone axes, I feel sad,
thinking of the a people defeated by
the ironware and escaped to the north.
　

Coming over here,
I find a spring river is muddy in red.
Muddy things do have the lives.
　

There is nothing but a moral for us
always to keep excellent expressions,
even though the hardship is unrivaled.