The moon will rise, the moon will set. At home a treasure basin is kept. Don't cry, my dear, just close your …
The moon will rise, the moon will set. At home a treasure basin is kept.
Don't cry, my dear, just close your eyes. While you sleep, treasures multiply.
Heavy eyes and dreams so deep. Rest now, my child, drift off to sleep.
When morning stars outshine the blue, you'll wake to find your dreams come true.
(A marginal note, seemingly not by the songwriter):
"Though striving for verses even an old crone can understand, they lack the piercing power to move hearts. While polishing these lines, I suddenly recalled Nie Yizhong's "Ode to Peasant Families". Setting its verses to song, they strangely harmonize with the melody. This must be fate—let me blend them into one composition."
In February, they sell fresh silk still on the reel;
In May, new grain is sold before the mill.
A plaster for today's wound, but they carve out a piece of heart—
Treating the surface, yet tearing out the very core.
Oh, that the sovereign's heart might turn to a candle of light—
The moon refuses to light feasts of silk-clad lords,
But shines on hovels where refugees cower.