Classic Poem

Because insect blood flows and seeps in
and everything exhausts its semen
this earth is bright,
from a woman's white fingers
a gold coin slips down on my hand.
The time is the beginning of May.
Infant trees swim out onto the streets,
chirping, buds grow out to flare.
Look, the landscape has come, valiantly flowing;
floating up distinctly in the blue sky
it really clearly reflects people's shadows.