Our Burden
Carrying seven children
In our four arms of parents,
We climb the steep hill of life.
Our Treasure
No silken dress we wear;
No delicacy we taste;
But playing with the children,
Our soul is contented.
Love
My thoughts well up in me
As numerous as autumn weeds
But unable to give them utterance
I only shake them off like the dewdrops
That cling upon my hands.
Pepper Preserve
Deep sinks the night,
And tranquil is the house
Where I cook pepper preserve.
Across the skylight
Darts a shooting star.
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