poetry is red blood inside a cold apple,
sorrow is like fertilizer
that must be sprinkled here and there on poetry,
poetry is a pregnant woman’s day,
the day of delivery nobody knows when it will be;
poetry comes racing embracing a bomb,
racing over the clouds.
Yet in one tiny paddy-field,
yellow heads of rice are ripening.
A field the size of a bowl of rice, small enough for a conical hat to cover,
a tiny bowl of a hat-field,
a gruel-bowl sized, rice-bowl sized gruel-field, rice-field,
hat-field.
Ordinary patients recover energy thanks to a bowl of gruel,
so by the power of a small strip of autumnal paddy
I am saved, you are saved,
so once again we lie flat on the field gleaning ears of language
then sow seeds of language
so that golden paddy-fields rise in tiers,
one of your poems,
a steaming bowl of rice, your collection of lyric poems
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