Come to this earth with open hands so
That worlds are like your soul.
Coming to the end of life, a little furniture
Supervises the people who live in the house;
This earth will reside with the mansion,
It will turn into gold if this house dies.
The golden meanings of this world
Are limited, but people survive
And then die endlessly and gracefully,
Feeding the hosts of this life
That sweats and desires more work for
The hands that built a monument.
A vault is needed to complete your life,
Death awaits those soldiers who die wondrously.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem