The good girl,
the silk cloth which covers them
and who in green jaded onion skin
pulls aside the tears,
how many dawns gone past
and have stars last omits it shines,
and raged, about coming with the light,
being useless from rage,
no one hears her crying and sleep can
never leave, deep at night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem