The Autumn turns the face of the border land
A flock of geese are flying south with no looking back
The sounds from the four directions are in the bugles
Smokes are growing high and long while the falling sun closes down the lonely castle
The turbid wine brings the home thousands miles away
No retreat the enemies, no way for home
The long and remote sound of Qiang flute, the frost on every land
Awaken are the grey haired generals and tearful soldiers.