The sound made edifices play like the sleeping moon.
If the brutal feeling remains,
If the petrified tears come down from the fountain,
If the gray stream flows from the pole-star,
There is no stopping in the kingdom of imagination.

There was a high curtain on the sky.
The star-studded characters are thirsty.
If you don't blaze to be a star,
The feeble steps of the flying ladder become an obstacle,
Take with you a fistful of free air from all over the sky.

If descend from the familiar atrium,
fly away as a migrating cloud,
descend as a fountain of boisterous music in this world.