A Poem I Cannot Title

By Chris Song

I write about the living.

I use the five senses to write

pomegranate, sound of wind, scent of tea.

Sometimes I ponder on things beyond the senses,

love, boundaries,

even things subverting the prevailing values.

When bored, I pick up your anthology,

thinking about death.

Like a mouse in the corner at midnight,

chipping away time,

gnawing at your verses,

exploring deeper and deeper

as if tree roots are stretching,

reaching for a title.

A form of freedom is beyond the senses.

The flipside is far beyond the reach of our sight.

Are verses from heaven harder to understand?

I am still alive, but you have long passed away.

To me,

nothing 

is stranger

than translating your poems.

And I write about the living.

(Translated by Vicki Lee)