A small field behind our house
Whenever it rains, I get muddy,
and the sky falls on my head.
My mother would scold me, but I would still run,
I had a dream of dripping water in my eyes.
Wet clothes, muddy afternoons,
Standing by the field,
the playground would get wet like a crow.
Cousins and sisters would make noise—
It's not raining from the sky, as if laughter was pouring down our faces.
The king and queen's drama with a broken umbrella,
Dreams of floating in the sedge beside the flooded pond.
Shivering in the winter, yet determined not to return,
Because that field was our little world.
Now, just standing by the window,
I see,
The rain comes and goes—only childhood doesn't get wet anymore.
