Classic Poem

Born this sixth month, this suspect sixth month
Can it be that the plum rains were spirited away
The wind blows brining news from the Pacific
Making one toss and turn all night long
Where did the plum rains go?
The hot sun topping the roof asks angrily
The reservoir, its bottom nearly exposed
asks embarrassed
The whole year asks with a mouth like a teacher's,
Tongue and lips dry and parched
The city as stifling as an oven,
flames leaping within
It would be better to drink sour plum soup
Than wait for the plum rains
Or simply freeze oneself with the chicken duck, and fish
As for the birthday, well the telephone lines
Sizzle with happy returns
—at this moment I'm longing to go home
For a long sweet dream under the longan tree
The sound of the cicadas hastening me to sleep,
The scent of grass filling my dreams
Who cares if the plum rains come or not
Who cares how long the draught will last
This sixth month.