Leaving the town in the mountains
after seven years’ exile from his native province
the old poet meets a woman one third his age,
the most beautiful he has ever seen in this place.
“Will you not write a poem about me”, she asks him,
“since you have written so many others?”
He looks at her a long time
then nods his head regretfully.
To write, he thinks to himself, or be haunted:
some questions do not have answers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem