The yard of our house is lonely
our yard is yawning in anticipation
of a rain from some unknown cloud
and the pond in our yard is empty.
The small inexperienced stars
are falling off the treetops
and from the house of the goldfish, through their faded windows
there come, at night, the sound of coughing.
Our yard is lonely.

Father says:
"It is too late for me
I did my work
I carried my load."
He sits in his room
from morning till sundown
reading native epics and histories.
Father says to mother:
"To hell with any birds or fish
what difference does it make after my death
whether there is a garden
or not
my retirement pension will suffice."

All her life
Mother has been standing
before her prayer-spread
at the threshold of the fear of hell.
At the bottom of everything
Mother looks for the footsteps of sin
and thinks that it is the consequence of a plant's sin
that has spread over the garden.
Everyday she says prayers
and breathes them to all the flowers
to all the goldfish
to herself
Mother is waiting for a second coming
and the blessing which is to descend.
My brother calls the garden a cemetery
my brother laughs at the confusion of plants
and takes statistics of the fish
perishing under the sick skin of the water
my brother is hooked on philosophy
he thinks the garden will be saved
by the destruction of the garden
he gets drunk
and punches the walls and windows
and tries so hard to say
that he is much pained, and talks of his ennui
he takes his despair with himself wherever he goes
along with his ID card, pocket calendar, lighter and ball-point pen.
His despair is so little that it gets
lost in the comings and goings
of the beer joint.

And my sister who used to be the flowers' best friend
and whenever Mother beat her
She shared the secret of her heart
with the quiet gathering of geraniums
and sometimes she even invited the family of the goldfish
for a party of the sun and candies-
now she lives on the other side of town
and in her artificial house
along with her artificial goldfish
beside her artificial husband
she sings artificial songs
and makes natural babies
whenever she comes to see us
and the hems of her dress touch
the poverty of the garden
she takes a cologne bath
every times she comes to see us
she is pregnant

The yard of our house is lonely
the yard of our house is lonely
everyday, behind the door, there comes the sound of
people being killed
and the sound of explosions
our neighbors are planting in place of flowers
shells and grenades. . . .
the little children have filled
their briefcase with little bombs.
The yard of our house is lost.

      * * * *

I am afraid of the times
when I have lost my heart
I am afraid of thinking
about the futility of so many hands
the alienness of so many faces.

Like a little student who loves madly
his geometry assignment
I am alone
thinking that it is possible to take the garden
to the hospital
thinking
thinking
and the garden's heart has swollen under the sun
and slowly, slowly, the garden's mind is emptied
of the memory of green.