On the Day of Pure Brightness
Graveyards are everywhere on the hills,
People come to offer sacrifice on this Pure Brightness to the deceased.
The burnt paper money lies in the air like butterflies,
Tears like blood have tinged red the azaleas.
When the sun sets, foxes find their sleeping dens among these graves,
Return home at night, lament no more the sons and daughters.
Enjoy your wine and get intoxicated as long as you have your days,
Not a single drop you could taste after your life in the graves.