A Visit To the West Village

Don't laugh at turbid winter-wine brewed by farmers, In an abundant year there is plenty of food for visitors. The pathway along hills seems to run into a dead end, There pops up a village amidst the willows and flowers. Dressed in ancient simplicity, playing the flute and drum, The farmers are rehearsing for the Spring Ritual Prayers. I wish I could henceforward visit the village anytime, Walking with a stick and calling on the austere villagers. (Tran.)