1

He was a traveler west of the river,
with wealth and eminence rare in this world.
All day long in vermilion towers
. . . . . dancing and singing songs.

The cup filled again and again, till he's drunk as mud;
lightly, lightly trading golden goblets,
wearing out the day tasting joys, pursuing pleasures —
Some people are rich and never go home.

2

He was a traveler west of the river;
only he knew how lonely he was,
dust and dirt covering his face,
all day long being cheated by others.

Morning after morning standing by the west gate of the market,
the wind blowing the tears that came down in two streams,
gazing toward his native land so many roads away —
Some people are poor and never go home.

3

He was a traveler west of the river,
then he took sick, lay an inch away from death.
Still he stayed on, looking for news,
though as time went by it seemed he'd have to depart.

The villagers dragged him to the west side of the road —
his father and mother knew nothing about it —
tied a tag on his body with his name written on it —
Some people die and never go home.