Along the riverbank under the trees

I discover footprints.

Even under the fragrant grass

I see his prints.

Deep in remote mountains they are found.

These traces can no more be hidden than one's nose, looking heavenward 

I hear the song of the nightingale.

The sun is warm, the wind is mild

willows are green along the shore -

Here no Ox can hide!

What artist can draw that massive head,

those majestic horns? 

I seize him with a terrific struggle.

His great will and power are inexhaustible.

He charges to the high plateau

far above the cloud-mists,

Or in an impenetrable ravine he stands.

The whip and rope are necessary,

Else he might stray off down

some dusty road.

Being well-trained, he becomes naturally gentle.

Then, unfettered, he obeys his master.

Mounting the Ox, slowly I return homeward.

The voice of my flute intones through the evening.

Measuring with hand-beats the pulsating harmony,

I direct the endless rhythm.

Whoever hears this melody will join me.