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Poem
It is very impressive to go westward
in an early morning of midwinter,
because you will see a full moon 
that you have forgotten for a while
in the middle of the western sky.

[The westward moon is, perhaps, 
the one that Li T’ai-Po
who was bewitched by
and delighted by a moon so much
chanted poems in praise of the moon
throughout his life,
after breaking a thick frozen ice on the lake,
scooped an August full moon 
that is not sunken but still floating 
on the surface of water,
and pasted it to the wintry sky.]

Although the air in my car is still cold as ice,
and roadside snow is being melted from salt spray
and messy, covered with splashes of dirty water,
the moon, like a virgin still chaste,
[By manmade machine and men,
the moon, though, lost her virginity long ago,]
looks immaculate and gorgeous as ever.

For the moon 
riding high in the western sky
enjoying the honor and admiration that is entitled 
only to virgin girls
though she lost it long ago,
the north wind,
because of her envy toward the moon,
was wandering in the frozen waste
pleasure driving a sheer-white chariot
brings a violent snowstorm, 
and heartlessly shakes the moon
that barely hangs on the midwinter’s western sky
to fall.  
After so much abuse,
kicks, stamps, smacks, and blows of violent wind
that of more than she can bear
the frightened moon flees to south, then to east
with her paled and waning face,
and finally disappears somewhere 
where no one will able to find her.

Total darkness covers the earth,
overwhelms to deny everything.

At the edge of this darkness
a somewhat eerie looking hunchbacked creature 
[Although he was much intelligent, 
yet tenderhearted, a man more sensitive
than the worldly-minded ordinary persons,]
comes and searches for the disappeared moon,
and when he finds 
a segment of a shattered piece of moon on the earth,
he embraces it in his bosom with tears of joy,
and falls to the ground with his last breath.

And as a hunchback perishes
a young man with more holes 
than the shattered pieces of fallen moon in his rungs,
who always whispered sadly to the waning moon
while leaning against a southward window frame,
comes and carries the hunchback’s remains hurriedly
in the cart to an eastern gateway, with gasping, 
to the place where the full moon dwells, with panting.
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