To which lonesome abode do you beckon me
plaintively
again and again, my friend!
My roadside home, full of sorrows,
is blown up by the storm every now and then
and so, made homeless, I roam around.
The haunting tune of your flute
loosens all ties.
That’s how I am a wayfarer
searching round and round
farther and farther afield
for the roadside bride.
Beloved mine,
you get jealous for the slightest cause,
that’s why you never stop by the wayside.
your pains wring my heart.
To make a home by the wayside
your eyes become tearful.
The scarf sweeps the wet grass.
Your doleful tune, friend,
draws up sighs
and moistens the eyes.
