SPRING FABLE

Berries are sure to redden on
The body of whiteness, entry of Spring
White shadows will collide
Drunk with the juice of Moonlight

Life will explode from the bony Mother
Earth will weep rivers, fountains, lakes
Birds will build fortresses
Time will drag a harmony of balanced ruling

Promising a silence as deep as the source
Buds will drift up the Great goddess stems
Flowers will steer countries to sunsets
Blue water-mists will flash by naked

Startling fishermen, colors will
Taint the margins of everything old
Owls give way to Peacocks
Midnights to quivering fields

Berries are sure to redden
On the fertile mounts of Spring.

Taiwanese Summer, Part III

I am waiting for a train
In the land of poetry and devotion
You left me here, traversing
The comfort of your past, your body
Your artful thumping heart
A fresh and vivid scenery once again
Assaults my senses, making me alive
Elongating my faith in nature
Like a strip of melons, ripe beans
Food of beauty, in the land of marriage
There were times when, I never believed
I would be a passenger in beauty
You say you only read classical poems
With the classics open on my lap
I want the purity of sky looks shattered
The traffic jam of trees, music, salt
I want the forest’s growing reliability
That only dies as part of her growth
I am waiting for a train
In the land of poetry and devotion
You who look more radiant than ever
A same dream with a plum flower
The pink hope of being reborn again
A total eclipse of the Moon and the Heart
At the dock of the riverbank, I smile
At how our eyes sparkle just to say goodbye.

Uninterrupted Poetry

These poems are lost to me
Like the dead, there is no returning again
To what was, old loves

My mind feels them shouting there
Those who have died to us
Once here, now gone

It is the same with the music of the night
Grief dies to my renewal
I regenerate my lips, my ears, my thirst

Like a mausoleum of longing
I am, without ever being satisfied
I wake up to radiant mornings

Each and every day, jasmine at my feet
And I write poems, like lost waterfalls
Missed sunrises, broken comets

Stars on the tips of forgotten inheritance
These poems are lost to me
Like the emptying fulfillment of breath

Like a kind of solution to what I am
I create a rhetoric of distinguished ambiguity
Legislating my soul to be free

An embroidery without worldly cares
These poems are lost to me
I am not a thief of possession

But rather, a common beggar
With the guarantee of unearthly words.