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The sun peeks his face out from the passing wind 
still chilly and cold, and in this air the tree branches 
stretch their arms to hold the sun as if sails on the deep and gray sky

The sun that is out of reach of a hand 
may be a hope; no, it ought to be a hope

One night I saw a wayfarer, becoming a moonbeam,
going toward April stepping on the footmarks March 
has left behind 

Although he has gone through so many hills and high waters 
with a knapsack on his back that was full with the countless 
sentiments he put in it for pity’s sake, the sack was emptied;
  
for the lapse of time makes things wear and tear
his garment was worn to rags, and when the wind 
passes through it penetrates the garment to chill the bone 

The deep anxiety he is unable to shake off, and therefore, 
reflected on the running water murmuring through the field 
as ripples of moonbeam, which is not from the fleeting of time 
or his sufferings while he was walking among the foes, but because 
he is sorry for and worries about friends he has to leave behind 

The friends, not many in number shared his happiness 
at the time of banqueting, surrounding the table though 
plain and simple, abundance in God; 

at the time counting the falling stars lying on a stone pillow 
by the gap between rocks. The friends, not in damnation but 
in endurance and warmhearted understanding, talked about better day to come while burning the passions in the bone fire on a day when they were wet and shivering in early spring drizzle

For the days he was with his friends were too short,
it caused him an embarrassment in counting the days,
yet they were unforgettable moments of joyous and happy experiences

As he walked through the field with friends he talked about tomorrow
standing on the hill top side by side, he asked them to pray for him, 
sitting on the sands by the water he sighed for he has to leave 
the friends, the sweet and bitter memories behind

Nonetheless, he cannot just stand by a roadside as an emotionless stone, 
he crosses the hill under the shade of a waning moon, and when 
the humble hearted teary-eyed wanderer blooms as a lily on the other side of 
the hill in dawning, the sunray fall on the lily on the dew
as hope to those who remember him, as happiness to the friends 
he left behind, as the covenant of the Lord to all who trust in him
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