I hear flute playing
up those burning peaks
once serves as light for
lowlanders going home
they don't have much
to burn by now, nude
forest, barren land
boulders rolling down
so sad melody of love
remembered by traveler
who happen to pass by
a maiden full of smile
captivated by her beauty
he never left to wander
instead tends for goats
and number of kids around
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem