When I was wandering alone
With the old sun
Who peeps over the
Deserted dead end
of the long foot path
I met a man with a
Wrinkled face-a fortune teller
Insisting me on
Telling my fortune
For just a penny
I said nay and asked him
Not to be dismal
Do tell me what fortune
I am to be entitled
Except expecting
An endless but sound sleep
In one final morning
After a one cold night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem