Classic Poem

In front of the stove the dog, brown, is sleeping.
By the dog I, human, am also lying.
The dog, brown, is two years old and male.
I, human, am forty years old and female.
I am watching the brown dog's sleeping face.
At times the dog
busily moves its four legs as if it thought it were racing in a field.
I decide the dog is having a dream that it's running in a field.
Sometimes the dog sleeps
with its belly turned up, four legs floating in the air.
Because the pose reveals the dog's great security I feel secure too and sleep.
Sometimes the dog opens its eyes and looks at me with its grape-colored pupils.
I get shy and turn my eyes down.
The dog gets to its feet and tries to scratch its belly with its hind leg.
And yet the leg doesn't reach the itchy spot.
I scratch the itchy spot for it with my hand.
Then the dog comes and licks my nose-tip.
That's the dog's word of gratitude.
Again the dog's lying, asleep.
I, human, sleep also by the dog.
Until now I have never
taken a nap feeling so secure.
Sometimes I find the dog pushing me on the shoulder or hand with its front legs.
That means the dog is inviting me to get up and play.
But I'm sleepy and can't get up.
Sometimes, at the dog's sudden bark I jump up, surprised.
In a matter of a moment
the dog opens the glass window, jumps outside
and in a corner of the garden is barking loudly toward the back street.
The dog is barking at the animal signs
which I, human, can't sense.
Then the dog
sits in the middle of the garden and is intently looking the other way.
I don't understand what the dog's seeing, what the dog's listening to.
It's said that one year for a dog is seven or eight years for a human.
The brown dog, in the two years since it was born,
has lived fifteen to sixteen of my years.
From the time I was twenty until today,
I've lived only about two years of the brown dog.