Would the bundles of sadness
be lifted in the winter wine?
My soul tossed by waves high,
wind carved my face from hour to hour;
water fell shower by shower.
When may I return to wash my spirit outworn
To wonder on my rusty flute
And fly the kite of incense blue?
Oh, wind and tide would not wait
for an old man long.
With apple trees and bright summer died
My green wooden frog has not cried.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem