The letter I wrote you had smeared ink，
But the bamboo walls are thin， and fog kept leaking through.
On this cold mountain， I cannot sleep at night.
By morning， a reed stalk can fade.
White snow on my thin blanket.
The stove glows red for lunch， but the mountain remains hazy.
Ink freezes inside my pen——
I hold it over the glowing coals and it melts into a letter.
Blocking the wind， a tree with purple roots trembles.
Corn seeds shrivel underground.
On days when my comrades are on assignment，
I miss them， but. . .there is an extra blanket.
The cold rooster crows lazily in a hoarse voice.
We beat on the cups， the bowls， to ease the strangeness.
The mountain hides hundreds of ores in its bosom.
I try， but can't find enough vegetables for a meal.
The rice often comes early， the letters late.
The radio is on all night to make the bunker seem less desolate.
So many years without women，
I mistake the sound of horse hooves for your footsteps.
Gathering clouds often invite me to dream；
knowing so， you keep the light glowing late.
Wishing I had some scent of soapberry
So rocks would soften， the mountains grow warm.