Classic Poem

Like a worn book of lore the crumpled sky opens,
Foothills like a castle's stone battlement,
As dusk arrives buried under a flight of bats,
Oil lanterns light every thatched house.
The village's India-ink image is moth-eaten,

And the painting's unveiled in patches.
Going forth from the field, a field of barley,
Maiden gone out to harvest Malmai herbs,
A maiden with a maiden enthralled by the lark's song,
Too bashful to return with basket empty,
Momai flowers blossoming on her cheeks.

Rain on swing ropes means a rich harvest, they say,
Yet when a tree collapses in pieces next to the nearby river,
A youth with a youth sets out on that raft,
Drifting down to the harbor for a few months' work.
The wind will swell if they're not back
Ere frost drops the leaves.

Even sparrows flee the unthreshed rice nurtured by blood;
The young, like bears, dream of the North pole;
The breath of the old, quarreling with the old;
Frosts over the walls, this midwinter night
Even the river, the village's own spy, is frozen.