Am I only an earthquake-prone Japan?
Or only a deluge-prone Bangladesh?
Or a mischievous long highway
accident-prone too often?
Is my Pacific heart
only as good as holy hay?
Are my boozed poems
the poor scraps in some silver platters?
And my would-be poems
just some heady snorts?
I am snowed up
and the smoldering fire
in the unperturbed inside fireplace
snowballs to sweep over
all the many snowdrifts
that may stiffen me to snowy stiff.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem