Classic Poem

The monk's season has come.
A monk of God knows what country was it
who discovered the fragrance of narcissus?
What's beautiful is not so much a nude goddess
as the way a nude tree twists.
A season of crystals and roots that form in black earth.
A man sticks his hand out of a yellow bamboo grove
and takes gems, the seeds of vines.
An oak like a broken harp
hangs a tress of green hair.
There's neither bee nor woman to play lonely spring.
The human being still squats
among brambles, thinking.