THE BOOKS OF PAINTING THE DREAMED ONE Poem by ZANG DI

Lately I often dream of myself
becoming a plant. Small roots, like thoughts, horned,
penetrate the earth in the dark,
searching for clefts where most unlikely
to find—the cleft of darkness.
Once found, it bears another layer of meanings.
In the beginning, it might represent
just a small change, but later on, it brings about
a whole creation of subtlety, making holes
into a channel. Oh the secret fluid.
Then, your dramatics takes an upper hand.
The sturdy stem grows fresh tender fibers
that even make women's skin look a little fake.
But fake or not is not the point; what's important
is that once you hold the symbol of the stem,
the inspiration from the earth transforms
into a Zest that only you can grasp.
What's more important is that as long as it's life,
it echoes in secret. Therefore,
it's not surprising that in such a deep place
you can still hear the chirping of an oriole.
Even the sole response has become our cards
to show - you know I've had this dream
not only for myself.