-In Memory of the Air-Force Pilot, the Father Myung-Ryul Park, and his Son In-Chul Park…
The hillside is dusky when the sun set in the west,
The riverbank the road lights flash on the dandy creased
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In early morning, whenever open the eyes,
It flows that the unrecoverable old stories, suddenly.
The autumn airs are whirling like the spring tides,
The regrets and sorrows surges upon to me.
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Dong-Ju, Yoon
The white washcloth is wrapped the black brains.
The white rubber shoes are hung on the rough feet.
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Dong-Ju, Yoon
On the night of the day when I came back
At same room, my skeleton was running after and lying
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Sah-Eon, Yang
Even the Tae-mountain is high,
But the limit is the sky.
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At dawn, through the open window embrace,
Whispers of weeping voices reach to my bed.
But down the park, to the grove I tread, where
The chorus of insects' hushes, silence spread.
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Dividing the earth south and north, like the old days the green tide flow.
To worry about the lover who was captured and could not follow.
Every day, the poor lady had looked at far and she's been lean.
At last as a tomb at summit, she hears the north wind's blow.
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In summer afternoon, when the sun leans low,
The local Confucian school's in repose,
But the trumpet creepers brightly glow
On the wall, the faces have smiled to disclose.
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In the summer afternoon, the sun inclines
And dark mist come near,
In the forest, bird songs are heard toward
The river and branches cheer.
...