Between the pond, the frog and a sound
Of the splash, a silence. A journey through
A narrow path in the recluse'e footsteps.
Bamboos and ivies grown in harsh winds,
Explaining the bereaved lover's woes as
Pearls in tears. Being the end in itself or
Is the journey itself an end. In autumn leaves.
Looking for bones in the flesh of soft skins,
A somewhat blacksmith's blows on moulds.
Receiving smiles on woven words and etchings,
Actually of no worth. Flashing skimmed milky light,
As if moon has the habit of piercing in the eyes.
The tone of the voice a greater harm than
The voice. A novice remark. Asking someone closer,
For a like when already liked. Washing hands in
Dewdrop, being blackened by life. Learning the virtues,
Of understatement and elegant simplicity.
Of a nourished soul and respect for nature, and humanity.
I still remain between the pond, the frog and a sound of the splash.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem