Classic Poem

For memories
I raise a moon cup
and toast.
But the white melancholy
still wore
the candlelike skin.
Beyond a cucumber garden
the noon sun was knocking
on a Chiangching tree.
I break off a branch,
and a sap raw-smelling as a skink
comes out.
Country people abhor it
as Medusa.
On memories' plate
Salome's black lips like fancy beads
quiver.
A tendril, severed by a memory,
trembles for fear in a bush
with a man.

Memories are twisted
as the Western man's pipe
that parasitizes the roots
of the lawn grass,
are lonely
as the breath of a goddess
blown in man's pores.