On a cold Sunday afternoon, I went for a walk in Riverside Park.
It was the month of February, and it was cold.
The morning sun was hidden behind quick clouds,
Bird songs mixed with busy traffic noise and church bells
And in the surrounding stood withered trees and their
Leaves lay calmly on the ground.
I noticed a tree leaning, so low that its boughs touching the hard brown
And yellow ground.
Did it fall, detach from its root, or was it only inclining
To escape the brittle wind?
I caressed one of its boughs, sliding my hand across slowly
Up, down and up, feeling the prongs beside prongs,
Scabs upon scabs, some of whom fell after my scanning fingers.
At first I wanted to walk closer and see, and touch its root hoping that this tree was
Still breathing out from its home. And if not when summer comes will it
Still be here, lying under light summer breeze while other trees
Bear green leaves. Maybe it is only yearning to feel the leaves
On its body again; inclining to feel time again.
Then I thought, is it lonelier when loneliness is in the deep sinking clouds
That cover one’s world, or the entire earth?
I still don’t know if that tree has lost its root for
I want to feel without seeing the
Edge before floating in the air; hope without hoping.
I simply sat on a green, grayish rock [to dodge the brutal wind]
Underneath its boughs within their smothering branches and observed
The quiet world.
The bare branches against the sky
Looked as though they were scribbles on a plain sheet of
White paper, telling and retelling the agile metamorphosis
Of darkness and lightness in shadows, memories and dreams.
Before entering the threshold of busy New York City streets,
I saw a sign that says “Forever Wild”, and the picture of a bird
Drinking from a tree.
In nature, there is something about not knowing!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem