I am like a jackfruit on the tree.
To taste you must plug me quick, while fresh:
the skin rough, the pulp thick, yes,
but oh, I warn you against touching --
Are you seventeen or eighteen?(1)
Let me cherish you by all means.
Thin or thick you display a triangle, and
A gentle spring evening arrives
airily, unclouded by worldly dust.
Lampwick turned up, the room glows white.
The looms moves easily all night long
as feet work and push below.
Drop by drop rain slaps the banana leaves.
Praise whoever sketched this desolate scene:
Praise whoever raised these poles
for some to swing while others watch.
My body is both white and round.
In water I may sink or swim.
The hand the kneads me may be rough,
But I still shall keep my true-red heart.
Peekaboo we used to play;
my hands covered my face,
your hands covered your face,
incredible, there we were gone.
Screw the fate that makes you share a man.
One cuddles under cotton blankets; the other's cold.