Father lifted a bundle of rice into the pile,
A slightly bent waist is like a full bow.
A year or a few years,
His arms are like rice stalks full of fruits.
Did not tremble because of the load,
This moment was fixed on paper by me.
Become a shining beacon in my memory,
A portion of rice or.
A ray of autumn sunshine,
These simple words.
I found my poor poetry,
The blood of life is the root of the nation.
There are unfinished fields on his back,
The heavy ears of rice press the straw,
One plant after another, one plant after another,
The golden wind is all over the sky in September.
Cleaning lady
Dragging a dream at the dawn of the North Ring Road,
Near where I live,
How many nights are hard to kill.
She walked back and forth for years,
The age of flower season is full of dust.
Because our mouths can open and breathe,
She is wearing a big mask,
A hidden natural beauty.
In addition to cyclones,
No one looked back at her.
Is she morning dew?
Is it a rag after night?
Broom braids in the fog,
Unable to clear.
Is the garbage that we are used to in our bodies,
She repeated her work on the road yesterday.
Because life and fallen leaves are repeating,
No one will miss a clean morning,
Dust changes quietly every morning.