Liquor, buns, meat, rice, and many bottles of water,
                            Each hoe has two ends and carries two baskets.
                            The group all shoulder these and we hike the mountain graves,
                            Sixteen ancestors on thirteen slopes.

                            To find the ancestors we cross many hilltops and climb steep hill walls.
                            Leaves and branches have lushly grown; it’s hard to make out the graves.
                            All start hoeing, all start chopping, and suddenly a tomb appears.
                            So strong and powerful, O my clansmen.

                            Flames leap from paper silver nuggets; the candles burn bright.
                            We hold incense and bow deeply; we take liquor and pour piously.
                            Firecracker explosions roar; the Heavens celebrate with us;
                            Remembering the source of our happiness brings bountiful blessings.