Drunk night
drowns in deep sleep.
Clumsy limbs limp in morning
until a brand new poem steams away all traces of last day.
As a day walks ahead
the feet under the yoke trudge
down the earthly track to till and sow and then to reap some happy crops.
Poets have the tug-of-war between 'the grey ground' and 'the blue sky'.
As sunset drops prose curtain
poetry bird spreads its wings in the sea mind.
The poet gleans his dream grains
in the stripped farmland to weave a garland for his muse.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem