Không rõ

The morning of early spring

The laughing sound of green leaves
is tickling early spring rain.
It does sound like comforting
everything that’s dry and cold.
The hot kiss upon the dry land;
they’re fervently on the same side.

A poet is

A poet needs to see the world
by removing his sunglasses.
He should listen attentively
to the words of a passing wind.
He should make himself much better
by dwelling on his thoughts.

A laughter diet

You’ll get thrills in your five senses;
like popcorns, you’ll burst out laughing.
O please stop your hurried steps
and go over with light steps.
Laughter helps flabby muscles be gone.
O please see wide-open smiles!

A sea of clouds

Cotton clouds get together;
each of them hides what is shameful.
Leafless trees, the valley,
and some footsteps are still seen.
Bit by bit, puffing out their chests,
the clouds cover all the mountains.

The passing time

A reed field on Mt. Yumyeong;
autumn goes over the field.
Not stopping flapping its wings,
and not feeling tired at all,
a lone bird is flying high up
so gallantly through the air.

The moonlit night of the West sea

Embracing the pitch-darkness,
the beach mud flat stretches away.
Lots of small crabs took their nests off
and they’re crawling on the mud flat.
Finally the crabs meet the coastline
that promotes vitality.

A piece of mind

Open your mind, and you will see
it’s larger than the cosmos.
Close your mind, and you will see
it’s smaller than your palm.
You have lived, laughing or weeping,
waveringly between two minds

I heard

Hoping to read the water sounds,
I sat down by the water.
Hoping to write the water sounds,
I listened up under the cliff.
However, what I just heard there
was my loud cry of sorrow.

A November thought

Red-tinged leaves are seated
on the backbone of autumn.
The tough muscles of their life,
thoroughly trampled down.
They’re dyed red, all blushing scarlet,
spitting out their tiring days

The day autumn leaves fall

The thousands of sacred flames
come running from the ravine.
When they are laid well in order
on the altar of early winter,
all the flames pour out their sorrow,
by shaking their thin bodies.