Somewhere from a distant sky,
Come willowy sounds of breathing,
O what a rally it is rushing towards here,
Riding on the white rays of the sun
That stream from the sky.

Is it a sound of mystique,
Coming out of the big belly of a gourd
Into which some unknown time ago,
Someone pulled burdens out of her heart
And twined them like strings.

Men are being born and gone,
With a few remaining here,
Whose lives will come and go,
As they attune their days of joys, anger, love, and delights,
To the four strings,
Along their steps that pass through the birth, the age, the sickness and the death.

Be it a Dang Pipa, or a Hyang Pipa
Let the song for the scattering flowers
Play over the fallen leaves of autumn,
For consoled will be the world of woe and tumult