In the northern temperate zone, in winter,

There is no longer the heavy snow

Of the past.

No one lights up

The sparkling flames, or gather

Together to dance.

Those brief journeys are probably like

An abandoned hunting ground.

All the rubble and ashes

After the burning gradually grow cold.

Now, they still gather in the distance,

Returning together to the past and memories.

The lighthouse hidden in the cornfield

And countless flying birds,

They begin to flutter unusually

In the murmuring evening,

Never stopping for a moment.