MY GARDEN

The shadows of playfulness in childhood are still strolling the garden.

In those old times,

Daydreams overwhelmed the real world,

The cicadas drove my nap away again and again.

A tree grew in the center of the gravel,

It was the nest I shared with birds and insects.

If I entered middle age, my dream died before me,

Then I would never step on the same stone slab of the trail;

Would never see a shoal of fish swim sparsely in the shallow stream.

Finally, the garden was leveled,

Yet including all the scenery I saw later,

It is still the only place where my thought could take a rest.