It beats eternally for our people, and even death cannot still it. Let him prepare to hear the voice of this morning. Let him look afar to the hills to see where the sun is born each morning. There have been many festive occasions over the year under heaven's high vault. Dewy grass shimmers, its roots growing down into the earth.
Seeds rest in their wombs.
Where the path rises steeply there are low firs, behind them higher ones. Their branches wave in the soft morning breeze. Dust rises from our footsteps. We climb grassy stones until we reach the summit, and the awakening land offers its morning beauty to the eye. Fields and meadows stand alongside each other.