1.
It feels I become the wind. Sitting beside my father’s grave
like a stranger. Slowly— I move with the clouds drifting from distant hills. I
lie with the grass— with the leaves— and fall asleep. It feels I fly as the wind
inside the forest far away. I will have no home, yet every door on earth will
keep its gaze toward me.
The petals will fall from flowers, and wearing the light of
evening, I will return home. With the fallen leaves in the courtyard, I will
fly and fly and go to that bird’s nest. The one who is far from me, who from
afar tends her firefly to stay awake without sleep.
From inside the darkness a few hands, some feet, will walk
over my body toward the fallen leaves. In the touch of wind, the leaves grow
tender, crossing my door, my yard— beyond the forest— moving toward my father’s
grave. I begin to go blind, and inside my closed eyes, I melt into the burning
light. I have no other eyes— like the bird of night, I smell the scent and hide
myself within the folds of leaves.
Where does joy go carrying itself away? How many prayers
gather in the lap of clouds! Still, like a sailor, I keep watching; I see in
the depth of water the world of fish— their shining eyes, forever turned toward
me. Where else shall I go? Flying, flying, the evening fades away.
How far am I from my father’s grave? After touching so much
seawater the sailors, the salt growers, the fishermen return home— yet some
light still stands beside the evening. With the restless prayer for the night
they sit facing the household people.
I think I will become the wind. Forever, I will befriend the
grass, the leaves. Over the water I will walk softly, crossing all the
afternoons of rain. The shadow I carry— may its noise drown into that ancient
blue sea. I think I will become the wind— as the shadow of evening walking
beside my father’s grave in the body of someone who looks like me.
2.
If I tell mother that even the duck who does not return by
evening still has wings— she would probably laugh, and walking, go toward
father. Opening the duck-house door, the two of them would start counting how
many ducks went missing today. The duck floating on the monsoon’s waves perhaps
knows of moonlight, perhaps in the trance of dream becomes a stranger somewhere
with a heart full of doubt.
Still I tell mother about the ducks, as from the bank some
fly and descend upon the pond’s water. And mother keeps saying something to me—
I, as if deaf— can hear no more. Mother keeps walking and the ducks look at me
and smile softly.
Where do mother’s ducks go on stormy evenings?
I have no wings, yet it feels, on a stormy, wind-filled
dusk, I become one of mother’s ducks. With the fullness of wings I keep flying
for a while. And one day, like the lost duck returning, I come face to face
with mother’s shining eyes.
3.
Thinking I might become a wanderer of so many evenings, I
came home. With the smell of old clothes hanging on the rack, I go to sleep. On
my eyelids seems drawn the picture of a road, and as I walk and think of losing
myself, I see, near the rack, two faces sitting. Carrying a glow of light they
look toward my eyes, calling me with that old scent, and with sleepy eyes I start
walking again, thinking I will be a wanderer.
In the sound of walking, the dust of the road seems to grow
heavy. I keep walking toward that distant tree I once saw, whose leaves pray to
the wind for a pair of wings. I stand beneath that tree’s shadow and tell my
old stories to the wingless leaves.
I have no wings yet, one day I will fly to the flowers!
At the evening, like a flower, I sleep upon the chest of
dust. Where the wind’s movement ends, it feels the festival is over. The air
around me seems to flee. Still, thinking I will be a wanderer, with tired eyes,
I keep walking— where else shall I go? Pressing my face against the wall
scented with time, I keep drifting there.
Tranlated by AI
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