I think it was just a dream, but I’m also not sure.

I also don’t know how old I was.

In that golden summer afternoon,

maybe I was floating or I was flying,

passing the cicada-chirping trees,

the sunshine beams through the window,

the corn fields,

the slowly steaming river,

the cooling breeze,

and the chicken stew soup from my grandmother.

Everything was so alive, and I was happy

but I don’t know why I also have tears in my eyes,

maybe I was scared because

I’m afraid of losing all that.

I can’t sit here watching everything disappearing.

I need to keep flying, and keep chasing

and keep keeping,

keeping my secret garden.