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Winter moonrise haunts us to cold,

But the new round unfolds,

With the first light of the dawn,

Here comes January

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The hourglass of February never misses count,

The lady of shallot waiting for her knight to come

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Dry as March is, hopes and expectations it brings,

No more weaving and mirror staring

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April arrives, with its sweet-smelling showers,

The pilgrimage starts,

But Lancelort is never seen

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May comes with the fragrance of berries,

Sweet days, sweet roses，

The tempting season triggers bold ideas

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June is the time to go wild

Running with no fear,

The young lady breathing the fresh air

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Hot July, mid-summer night,

Girls dance in circles,

So alive and hotter than the sun

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August appears with glamorous sheen,

The immotal bird falls in love with easeful death,

The cursed lady blooming and fading

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Sorrow and scarlet leaf,

The glory and the grief,

All covered by September whistles

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October fields of barley and rye,

That clothe the world and meet the sky,

And through the field the road runs by,

The damsel has no chance to have last glimpse

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Drenched in cold morning dew,

The knights come two and two,

Riding past the Camelot,

Disappearing in November purple dawn

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Year in and year out,

Here comes the end yet the other round,

Far away down the Camelot,

No girl is weaving and sigh,

Silence of winter not even shows a sign.

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