My poem is like ­
strolling in
the backyard where the
night fragrance spreads,

and suddenly encountering
your lover and pulling
forth the pain from her heart;

like snowflakes spreading,
and fallen leaves piling up
in the empty field;
like the stepping sound
of footsteps going up the
stone stairs.

My poem is like ­
the heart of life that
comes forth from the frozen soil,
patiently, after the winter dormancy.

But now,
it is like the waving inspiration
of the flag of the soul of a poor heart.

And it is like
the endlessly flowing sound of
blue water.