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Personal Note:

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Poem

One may insist that spring will come if I just stand there,
I was, therefore, standing on the riverbank as he said.
The rain poured on the riverside where I stood
and when the water ran into the river
for downstream where the valley expands,
at a time when the water returns as the dew drops 
on the riverside, the flowers bloom exclaiming, 
“spring is here.”

Because he said that summer will come
when the spring grows as flowers on the riverside prairie
and look up at the sky from the places where they rooted,
I leaned on the drifting could high above and stared 
at the corner where the sky hangs on, and before knowing
summer rushes here driving the golden chariot.

And when you live through your life
hanging onto the golden chariot, he says,
autumn will come. 
That’s why when the sky becomes red
on the other side of the golden chariot goes, 
winds rise and leaves fall and autumn comes 
stepping on the fallen leaves.

If I weave the mortification I experienced as warps
and cruel treatment I underwent as the threads of wefts,
while relating all detestable memories deeply imprinted 
in my heart to the leaves woven into a small boat,
and waft it on downstream to forget all those unwanted memories,
by the time the drifting water becomes a star
after whirling in the marsh for a while,
and falls onto decaying reeds
the winter comes, he says, 
as a colorless lonely flower by a grave site where I stand.

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