The field is the home of the brave

Stepping on the morning dew

With the sound of the farmer's hoe

To the forest, the fields, the streams and the secret unknown places

Walking

To set out, perhaps to reach

Maybe just to stay where we are

The fragrance of the earth is awakened by the footsteps

The sound of cicadas stopping at the sound of people

The bamboo and the land form a beautiful arc

with the bent backs of farmers

outlining the gradually brightening morning

Here

The scent of tea is twisted in the sweaty fingertips

The bamboo tube is fragrant with oil

The forest is the auditorium where the summer insects sing in harmony

The pond is a sacred place where lotus and roots reincarnate

The sheep do not return to their homes at night

The dogs occasionally steal the chickens

The sharp edges of rice and the thorns of melons

Cut the skin - red, swollen, bruised, bleeding

And perhaps the powerlessness and disturbance of the earthly world

Through bite marks and strains

We hear the soul's deep

pain

Remove the churches, shake off the skyscraper heels

Touching with our hands

Touch the earth

Pick up a thin brush and paint two strokes of bamboo

Or bow to a clear spring and cook the fragrance of medicine

Then

All the departure becomes return

All walks become conversions

Under the night, the stars are like torches

Blow out the reading lamp

All the body is the moon