The Smoke of Our Old Home Rises Curly (Angol)
I squatted down in front of my grandfather.
My grandfather was using that burning red hot iron
To brand marks on the herds.
Every wrinkle on his face, and the white hair atop his head
I asked him
Why is that place where smoke spirals at the foot of the mountain
No longer our home?
It was converted into an enemy barrack.
He shook his head
A gleam of wry smile flickered across his lips.
He pointed to the grass way down the hill
surrounded by the lakeshore below the valley
Like a carpet dotted with colored flowers.
It did not miss any terrain
It did not stop in front of the lion's heels.
The view had been extended to the door of our home--
The home we will never go back to again.
Although the mountain lives without us
Those hidden rough stones on the road
And the cold spring water
Forge my strong physical strength
and I will drink the cold spring
Even though my throat has long forgotten
the sweet taste of jujube.
I can’t return to our old home
And ignite a thriving kitchen fire,
I ride on horseback,
Lead the bow toward the sky
Attempt to shoot down
The brightest star in the sky
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