The Cheonsugak stands tall, yet the teahouse sits in solitude,
Gone are the ancients, and the pavilion rests in the place lonely hued.
Passing winds, they even not sing the history, then disperse,
While moss on fallen stumps, whispers bypast verse.
(Jul.28th,2024, Kinsley Lee)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem