On a spring day, the river flows blue, and the cliff is high. Like passed dates,
On the Tangeumdae, as if the sound of the gayageum playing resonates.
The eight thousand rancored souls. Now, where they're resting.
As if knowing the ancient history. A bird is wandering and weeping.
(10th, Jun.,2023, Kinsley Lee)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem