Worship, and After

The northern and the southern hills are one large burying-ground,
And all is life and bustle there when the sacred day comes round.
Burnt paper cash like butterflies, fly fluttering far and wide,
While mourners' robes with tears of blood a crimson hue are dyed.
The sun sets, and the red fox crouches down beside the tomb;
Night comes, and youths and maidens laugh where lamps light up the gloom.
Let him, whose fortune brings him wine, get tipsy while he may;
For no man, when the long night comes, can take one drop away!