The landscape of the old days when I had lived in the country,
Fifty year has passed, sometimes, it reminds me like the yesterday
Now, I can hear the fall drops and it feels to me like the poetry.
Sometimes I can smell the old when I see the drops in rainy day
At noon, the bees across the brooks are flying and buzzing,
At night, from the milky way, the stars come down and whispering.
In the morning, school-boys go to the school with back packing.
At the afternoon, the boys are coming back with cows at the sun setting.
In Early Spring, it snowed in large flakes on the bloomed azaleas.
It went well, to the Violet and white hills, but the sun sent his rays.
In late Autumn, on the mountain hills, there were the wild-achilleas
At night, the wind breathed, the petals were scattered on the ways.
The old landscape calls me to become, nigher and nigher.
The summer rain-drops sing and call me with hitting the windowpane.
But I know, going to the landscape, only I'll be a new stranger,
Yearning and hatred are not the other word, I recite to the old lane.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem