Even the highest sky is tinged gray. Its canopy tilts to the southeast
In need of an S-shaped nail
To stop the flow of yellow honey and red milk from the sunset.
The hearts of the lamps hang cooling on the upturned boats,
And the retired fisherman extends on his dry hands
Stains of tears and blood, as the moonlight scraps
Freeze on the coagulating water their weightless heaviness.
I love you. This is what the hill has since the age of yellowness
Never spoken out, but now at late night as a small wind crawls along its back,
Trees strive to hold steady their last fruits,
Not trying to figure out which is the waterflow, the white or the black?
After the sunrise over the snow-covered wheat field, hares’ awkward jumps
Of hind legs would make the most blinded eyes filmed with smile
And the under-snow warmth.
December 23, 2008