The end of fall, the redness' richer than,
The end of spring, the flowers' glow.
And atop of the mountain peaks, the wild
Grasses gleams white like snow.
The Han River flows around the park,
And toward evening it's surface glisters.
City vitality echoes in the sound
Of the wind, reminiscent of poetic whispers.
(Apr.7th,2024, Kinsley Lee)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem