An elder lives by the side of the river,
He weaves baskets of reeds and throws away pearls;
He finds pigweed and pulse sweet to his taste,
And enjoys his hut of wattle and thatch.

How could he ape those fine, young dandies,
Who go riding in light chariots drawn by fine horses?
In the morning, they are born beside the best highways,
In the evening, they are buried at the edges of byways.

Before our joy and laughter have come to an end,
We find ourselves sighing and sobbing in the twinkling of an eye;
As I observe these flighty fellows,
I express my indignation with these words.