I was not certain
what it would be like
what it would look like
what shape or form
it would take in the mind:
a bunker paradise
breathless
silent as a coffin
an expanse looking
half empty with hope
or half full in doubt
and a measured distance
12 feet to the hole
with snake eyes
tense yet iridescent
Yang kissed the ball
and a birdie putt exploded
in overflowing joy
and an echo resounded
relentless like a twister
as clenched fists
stamped history
advocated by Tiger Woods:
how can this be?
how can you believe
in what you see
but see it nonetheless?
with an Asian smile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem