The August moon
Was already high
When I awoke.
Outside the seafront
Packed with picnickers
IPhone framed faces
Sharing moon cakes
And red wine.
Snails salted in soy
Children play
Adults light lanterns.
A few flames float
To the mother moon
But most
Too eagerly plunge
To a watery grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
in those i-phone frames too eager snuffing of flames.