A scholar with a book sits
just within the cemetery gate:
And so, green statue with
your large hand on your book,
don't look so foolish
with snow on your head.
When did you last come
to sit beside the dogwood
growing a shadow over the dead?
Death is a deed.
Death is a clean sorrow.
It is natural to weep -
Even a waste basket in a cemetery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem