What gives life also kills it.
The waves of the ocean breaking on black rocks,
The swift bird settling on a pink flower,
The moon, heavy as good luck,
Sitting on an old, grey-bearded cloud.
These beautiful things give life to poetry,
But if you forget to catch them,
These things also kill the words.
Like an animal in the night,
The words flee into the forest and are lost.
That woman, my wife, full of life
Moving softly on the sand,
The water filling the prints she leaves,
Her smile and happy eyes
Give birth to the words.
Grasp the work when it is there,
Wait for it quietly and encourage it with good thoughts.
Nothing is guaranteed.
The man whose job it is to cut the wood in winter,
Must cart water in summer.