You stand in wind, the field’s chest waves
The wind quivers you into a tree
Half of you crouches in the earth
Sturdy root genuflects under your legs
What kind of clay
calls for your gloomy cave
with trickling dribbles?
Beneath the black clouds
you sprinkle scarlet rain of flower
Along the gentle curve of body growing upwards
you dye the four seasons green and your dream tangles vines
At your lip, the light gently sings and gracefully dances
Your branches and leaves are the language with multiple meanings
making a man frequently wander, but never lost
Your two long braids
twist into a snake behind the head
In a softly sweet talk
Apples on your chest ripe
The man to whom you hint with your eye
hastens to come near, sweating all over face
A brush of humming wind
touches your roundest maturity
Going down your trunk
it penetrates into the soil
At the stream of damp root
it drinks the shower of eve