At the field (tiếng Anh)

Crumbles around me?
What is that shouting
At Hantan-ri field where the wind’s beautiful white ripples
Kiss the sun-warmed ground?
What is it that crumbles
Little by little?

As if dreaming a terrible dream of old war sites
The sun shudders with fear.
Several gunshots ring
Over sun-bleached heaps of stone
The wind whispers softly.

It is the sound of
Old mountain ridges breaking apart
And the shouting of flowers
and wild strawberries ripening madly
On an old crumbled castle-keep.
It is the sound of a brass trumpet
Signalling the long strife
Between fading powers and emerging ones
And the sound of my blood boiling
Reverberates my ears
And in my heart

When I stand
In the desolate field where irises are burning
Softly and steadily like an advancing evening tide
I hear the crumbling sounds again and again,
The sound of something crumbling
Little by little.