A Free Life

Every religion promises a unique heaven

where there's no sickness, old age, pain, or death.

In Pure Land Buddhism, heaven is said

to lie somewhere in the west,

and you can get there if you do good,

recite Amida's name every day, and never kill.

You'll be reborn into that vaulted domain,

not from the spasms of a womb

but from a lotus flower-such a birth saves you from

falling back into a lesser incarnation on earth.

Once you settle in the Pure Land

you'll suffer no extremes of cold and heat;

you'll be provided with beautiful clothing

and gourmet food, always ready and warm.

There will be no anger, greed,

jealousy, ignorance, laziness, or strife.

The place is resplendent with precious stones,

towers built of agate, palaces of diamonds.

Huge trees of various gems bear

blossoms and fruits, always fresh.

Giant lotus flowers diffuse fragrance everywhere.

Pools inlaid with seven jewels

hold the purest water, which adjusts itself

to the depth and temperature each bather needs.

Under your feet spreads the ground paved with jade.

Day and night flowers fall from the sky shaded

by nets of gold, silver, and pearls.

In the air waft celestial music and aromas.

Not to mention living with Buddha and bodhisattvas.

Born of flesh and consumed by care,

how can I not marvel at those wonderful things?

How can I not think of mending my ways to earn entrance to that splendid place?

Yet tired of travel and tangled in the web of dust,

I will pray to the almighty power:

let me be a tree on earth after I die,

a tree that blossoms into fruit every summer.

Yes, praise-let me think of someone,

who, in suffering, still holds

happiness as his birthright;

who, searching in vain for his misplaced gloves,

remembers those who have no hands;

who, while keeping an eye on his god,

does not frown on the gods of others;

who, having lost a contest, is ready to salute

the one who has just outperformed him;

who, in a bustling street, still hears

birds in distant hills;

who, though able to mix with crowds,

is not rattled by their clamor;

who, loving a country, never lets this love

outweigh his love for a woman and children;

who accepts disaster and triumph equally,

making friends with neither;

who treats a limousine just as a vehicle,

a palace as no more than a dwelling;

who, while having coffee with a dignitary,

doesn't hesitate to step out the door

for a breath of fresh air.

You have been misled by your folly,

determined to follow the footsteps of Conrad

and Nabokov. You have forgotten

they were white Europeans.

Remember your yellow face

and your puny talent-unlikely

to make you a late bloomer.

Why believe you can write verse in English,

whose music is not natural to you?

You have betrayed our people,

scribbling with the alphabet out of

contempt for our ancient words,

which stand like rocks in time's river,

against the tides of gibberish.

Carried away by hatred,

you have mistaken diversion for devotion.

Even if you're lucky and earn a seat someday

in the temple housing those high-nosed ghosts,

do you really think they will accept you

just on the merits of your poems?

Be warned-some of them, who were once SOBs,

will call you a clever Chinaman.

For God's sake, relax a little.

Stop raving about race and loyalty.

Loyalty is a two-way street.

Why not talk about how a nation betrays a person?

Why not condemn those who have hammered

our mother tongue into a chain

to bind all the different dialects

to the governing machine?

Our words, yes, once like a river,

have shrunk into a man-made pond

in which you are kept, half alive,

as a pet to obey and entertain.

So, I prefer to crawl around at my own pace

in the salt water of English.

As for the great ghosts in the temple,

why should I bother about their acceptance?

The light of dawn does not discriminate.

A tree, or butterfly, or stream

(unlike the dog corrupted by humans)

does not notice the color of your skin.

To write in this language is to be alone, to live on the margin where loneliness ripens into solitude.

You must go to a country without borders,

where you can build your home

out of garlands of words,

where broad leaves shade familiar faces

that no longer change in wind and rain.

There's no morning or evening,

no cries of joy or pain;

every canyon is drenched in the light of serenity.

You must go there, quietly.

Leave behind what you still cherish.

Once you enter that domain,

a path of flowers will open before your feet.