It is autumn, again skies.
Has been covered with dark clouds
To white-haired mountains, sunny lowland.
Mist has dropped its mournful blanket.
Leaves have turned yellow and fell down.
Trees have undressed and left naked.
Sound of the songster birds has been cut.
Forests went into thought from grief.
As if mountain and spring are sad,
From those months it became lonely.
Lowlands, flowers in this merry grass.
God knows when it was faded.
Though sometimes a sun looks around rises,
It does not warm a land, meadow,
Though my flowers flourished in the pot.
It does not gladden by pampering me.
