Classic Poem

From the mulberry-rope country of Silla,
hearing people say that it was good
you came to this country where you had no
family or relatives to turn to.
In this country where our sovereign rules,
crowding the sun-shining capital
streets and houses are many,
but, I don't know what you thought,
here close to these strange hills of Saho
you came, yearning like a weeping child,
built yourself a house with furnishings and all,
and dwelled in it and lived
long through a string of years.
But all living things die, they say,
and no one's exempted from it.
While everyone you counted on
was traveling, with grass for a pillow,
you crossed Saho River in the morning,
and seeing Saho Field behind you
you walked toward the foot-wearying hills,
forlorn, and hid yourself.
Not knowing what to say, what to do,
I go back and forth, all alone,
my white-hemp sleeves never dry,
in grief I weep, shedding tears.
On Mount Arima clouds linger,
Have they fallen in rain?

ENVOY

Because life can't be made to stay, you left your house, furnishings and all, and hid among
the clouds