Stories of passion make sweet dust,
Calm water, grasses unconcerned.
At sunset, when birds cry in the wind,
Petals are falling like a girl s robe long ago.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The song of nightingales reaches utmost limits While the green of the leaves and red blossoms reflect off the other On the hillside of a seaside village, the wind catches the banner of the liquor shop. At the height of the south dynasty, there were 480 temples, In the misty rain, how many remain?