Sang-Cheol, Han
A long-horned beetle brags in the sunbeam
In golden armored wings in the loose-flower hornbeam
Coming and going, you draw a heavy plow
Between the furrows of the clou-
D. It's no use for you if harvesting in the field,
Why did plough the phantom truth field?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem