Winter Letter

    The letter I wrote you had smeared ink，

    But the bamboo walls are thin， and fog kept leaking through.

    On this cold mountain， I cannot sleep at night.

    By morning， a reed stalk can fade.

    White snow on my thin blanket.

    The stove glows red for lunch， but the mountain remains hazy.

    Ink freezes inside my pen——

    I hold it over the glowing coals and it melts into a letter.

    Blocking the wind， a tree with purple roots trembles.

    Corn seeds shrivel underground.

    On days when my comrades are on assignment，

    I miss them， but. . .there is an extra blanket.

    The cold rooster crows lazily in a hoarse voice.

    We beat on the cups， the bowls， to ease the strangeness.

    The mountain hides hundreds of ores in its bosom.

    I try， but can't find enough vegetables for a meal.

    The rice often comes early， the letters late.

    The radio is on all night to make the bunker seem less desolate.

    So many years without women，

    I mistake the sound of horse hooves for your footsteps.

    Gathering clouds often invite me to dream；

    knowing so， you keep the light glowing late.

    Wishing I had some scent of soapberry

    So rocks would soften， the mountains grow warm.