In the distance, glittering with mirages,
Things come together and drift apart.
And, as the dark brown horses run,
a gentle flame brushes their stirrups.

In the eyes of one used to the steppe,
the edge of heaven appears nearby.
In the action of the horses, used to distance,
It seems their homeland stretches straight ahead.

Above, a kite is circling,
Taking the measure of the broad steppe.
And so. tired out below,
I rest upon a hill. I crane my neck back.