Not because a cycle of sixty years is empty.
　　I invite you to have a glass of
　　Refined wine–
　　59 percent pure alcohol
　　–Merely one percent less.
　　Your lips are not yet wet though,
　　You have already been intoxicated,
　　Beginning to hum “The Great River Flows towards the East,”
　　And I sing a folk song
　　Or hum at random for a whole night.
　　At sixty, my voice,
　　I have to admit,
　　Has grown somewhat aging.

　　To get drunk, ok! Yes, Ok!
　　Listlessly and faintly
　　I lie alone in bed.
　　Bet my hair is thin:
　　In the passage of passionate years,
　　My hair has been scratched short and bald,
　　Too short to bind
　　The galloping years.