What is the Waste Paper?
An old man, out of nowhere,
Brought waste paper to me and begged me to buy it.
"What is the waste paper?"
How on earth could I answer him?
While all kinds of steaks and ice creams are by my side,
Yet I, too, know the sweat embedded in that waste paper;
I know I cannot escape this reality.
I guess it must be the sweat of many lives,
The scent of earth, and a wound where dreams are cut,
Or perhaps it is an unnamed blanket of my own.
The waste paper discarded by someone—
It is my dream, my hope, and my warmth in the deep winter chill.
A runaway cat, discovering me, who was once its butler,
Mews at me:
"Why are you there? Leaving your warm room far behind,
Why are you here with me?"
The waste paper is the cat’s home itself;
Perhaps I have stolen its shelter for the night,
As I gently pitch my tent alongside the paper.
To the cat that was once my family, this might be a betrayal,
Or perhaps, the butler's proud, ultra-luxury hotel.
The cat and I were born the same,
Under the same care of parents, writhing without knowing,
We are all the same.
The crying of the cat,
The silent, breathless sound of its paw pads,
To me, they all look like the same human being.
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