The attribution of the poem is disputed on internal evidence. Kim Sakkat’s wife lived longer than him.
I’m in mourning. My son rests on Blue Mountain
and now I’ve buried my wife.
The wind burns like acid and the sun is weakening;
thoughts are gloomier still.
Back home again, mooning, the house is like a monk’s cell.
All alone, I tuck the cold bedding around me and sit till the cock crows.
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