Holding a golden moon,
This fully ripe pomelo in my hands
Heavy and real, I wonder if I should
Cleave it open in a knife stroke and eat it up
Or peel layer by layer of its skin
As if forcing a tight fist to unfold into an open palm
And slowly reveal the mystery hidden there.

It’s like a blow: I am astonished to find this weak little fruit
Has great strength, deliberately resisting
The tearing force of my fingers like claws
As if to hint
That it cannot be slighted, let alone cheated
My relaxed fingers are tense again
And their obstinate strength increases violently
Only to tear down a bare inch of rind, getting no further
Its mature heart enfolds high mountains, great lands and soil
Clouds, winds and ample sunshine
Then a rainstorm turns the rivers into torrents
All this gave strength to the rind
To resist human strength and tenacity.

I breathe in deeply and flex veins and sinews
To pull bravely and peel

But I merely feel
That my opponent with unwavering will
And silent, stubborn, unflinching posture
Calmly faces my gnawing teeth.
I wonder if I should
Remove my limp drooping hands from the rind or
Persist till the rind gradually falls off

At that very moment, somebody hands me
A shining silvery knife

14 February 1988