Spring Mire
As if awakened from its dream,
The wind that murmured in the pines
Roars over the remaining cherry blossoms.
A banner on the castle
Waves crazily,
And the August wind
Turns into showers.
Though the dog chases,
The wagtail raises not its wings,
But swiftly slides down
The slope of the turfy hill.
when I wrap my sorrow
In the flames of my love,
The pale blue smoke
Rises out of my soul.
When I place a piece of ice
On the palm of my hand,
I feel a curious intimacy
With myself.
Rain falls
With a sound more harsh
Than my tearing of a letter
Which I must hide from the others.
Though I well know that this world
Is a vault to which my life is entrusted,
I come to grow weary of its musty smell.
On the palm of my hand
I place a bit of sand
And blow upon it,
But wet the sand comforts me not.
In the moonlight night,
As the petals of the magnolia fall,
The path in the woodland
Seems like the stretch of a beach
Dotted with white shells.
O my honored guest
Who comes to enjoy the mountain spa!
Pray, seven rooms in my house
Are all rented to the autumnal mist.