The ground could never bear
the two of us—we meet,
and your blue quill strikes
my sad night, roars through me—
seeds of fire bow over Heaven and Earth,
their zenith venerating
this temple.
Faraway Road
If the world were a lotus, I would have seen only the flower
that grows in dirty water, yet remains unstained,
like the plump cheeks of a baby at its 100th-day feast.
The bug that endured the long winter with its naked body,
that curled like a bean to avoid the world,
now rubs warmth into my body of stagnant blood.
Yes, if the blood flows, and tears form like dew,
and they bloom like the lotus in the mud,
I will lay myself down in the fresh, green May sunshine again.
The prayer of my young self that cannot reach the sky—
each time a blue wind blows, like a baby on the veranda,
it rolls the lotus leaves until they are about to fall, about to fall.
Water Clock
Because you are lonely, you build a house, and lonely, you dream,
and waking, you lock me in the house of your longing.
Without one bit—
no remorse at all—the water clock still runs.
Warm Grief
By loving you,
I learned how to love:
Holding back, seeing your face gaunt from pining, getting up and keeping in what I want to ask, turning away, unable to speak
The worst time, winter’s first night, going numb seeing you among bare branches, in the darkened sky in the fingernail moon
Suddenly, magnolia petal snow under the cone of lamplight, I throw the window open wide and stand there missing you, missing you, telling only the snow
To the end, holding back words like “I love you” to the bitter end
Warm grief
Snow-dusted road
I tread over
That night
