◎An Injured Deerlet
All the while I have in my
Injured deerlet. I cannot find many a
Tiny plum blossom left by him in the snowfield.
The meadows become withered and the brooklets go dry.
The sun scatters its lightspots on the foliage. As the dots fall down
There leaves behind a round bullet hole. From this I see life’s fragility
Yet I forget about what I ought to say.
Our similarity lies in the following: licking ceaselessly
Some wounds on the body, running after a piece of green leaf
And, if there’s no chance to catch up, rendering it over to poetry.
I’m bound to seek out in his hoofprints
His blood-dripping trace and
Gently wake up the pains deep at heart.