After mid-autumn, pomelos up in the trees, on after another
Plop and drop on the lawn surrounded by trees.
See, here and there amid the golden yellow
A green on looking still unripe and sour hangs on high
Fighting deliberately against the season’s god
And betrays a tinge of stubbornness and pride
To retain that quality of young fruit
Like someone sober standing up against the winds.

When the autumn winds first rise
So many pomelos sense the approach of the season.
While still attached to branches
They turn yellow and let the colour spread
Reflecting an arrogance autumn can scarcely contain ─
The imminent fulfilment and pleasure of dropping

I recall I once picked up from the lawn
A pomelo that had left the branch, dropped of its own accord
Wishing to be like others fully ripe and sweet
But suprpised, my tongue still feels
A decidedly sour and bitter taste

I cannot detect
Falsely ripe rind and its pigment.
All pomelos are used to ripeness coming
At the same time year after year
And to letting the winds outside judge
And decide their own programme of growth

Let the sensitive surface
Keep the nucleus that radiates in all directions
To probe the inner strength or weakness
The ripening will ripen and the windfalls will drop
But the green pomelo that doesn’t drop on time surprises and delights me.
It knows itself, is frim about its duty to bear fruit

21 October 1986