You didn’t send me flowers this time.
I realized you were much more beautiful than flowers.
I am slow, you know.
Would she smell the end from my lame excuse?
She might disappear like a ghost at dawn.
If there is a beginning, then there will be an end.
But the beginning like a volcano eruption
shouldn’t end like an iceberg in the South Pole,
which is melting due to the global warming.
Regardless of Earth’s demise,
we have been holding up against the world
with the memory of just one night?
Who knows what was between us?
Just like a virtual reality with run-out battery,
after being distorted and chopped constantly,
the illusion might pop up to the real reality.
A fantasy in which only the flower is real
can’t have a beginning and an end!
At the end of the world,
What will remain is not
I or she, but
The memory of sending flowers,
The memory of receiving flowers.
How long can a cat endure
in front of a fish?
There was a fish
that a cat didn’t even
give a look.
A plump dear caught in a snare
is blocking the way of a ravenous tiger.
Catch both dear and tiger together?
Avaricious God or Satan
Illusion of the tiger or the dear
Illusion duet of the tiger and the dear
A tiger is not a cat.
A dear is not a fish.
A tiger that releases the trapped dear
and disappears unhurriedly;
A daydream of a tiger
with full stomach.
The hungry but patient tiger
that prays facing the face of the
poor dear caught in a trap.
I told her to be a bird,
then she’d become
a little bird in front of me
and asked me to be
a big tree for her.
So I’d become a tree.
That little bird is snooping around
for a place to sit
on the tree
where birds of all different colors
are enjoying noisy chatter.
You are trying to sit
on the highest branch
but might fall on the ground
from the wobbling branch
because you have big breasts
even though your wings are small.
Why don’t you sit
on the thickest branch safely
and try to listen of the pulse
coming from the deep deep
root of the big tree.
The butterfly has become a bird in front of me today.
Bird watching is a tough task; a bird told me.
You have to be hiding for many days waiting for birds.
How lucky I am! A bird, a pretty bird is singing right
in front of me without even trying to fly away.
Has I become a flower already? Right.
I don’t have to hide in order to watch a pretty bird.
Opening and closing its small and cute beak,
the bird is singing a profound and intelligent song.
Wouldn’t it be great to add sexy to the beauty?
It’s dear-like long neck – don’t ask, small bird has a neck? –
looks like being surrounded by not-so-cheap perfume.
Lots of fish must be swimming in its eyes like a deep lake,
that once in a while meet my eyes full of hidden desire.
A mermaid that is playing in surprisingly plain feather;
next time, snow white will be sleeping in there?
I don’t see a tail in this small bird.
How long and pretty would its tail be?
the tail will be surely wide open…tomorrow.
We are facing each other like this
Listening to the song ‘We are…’,
Immersing own self into each other’s eyes,
And feel the breath from each other’s lips.
You can call it the will of fate
Or you can draw an energetic picture
Called the power of avoidable fate.
This wouldn’t be a temptation from Satan.
I am not a prey worth drooling over.
This wouldn’t be a temptation from God either.
He, such a big being, shouldn’t have put
This kind of dirty and childish snare
For a marginal human being like me.
We can insist that this is a will of God.
Well, would we feel God’s warm mind
That tries to grant my wish that I want to be a flower?
I decide to become a flower for her…
Why she? All right, all right, all right, but
Let’s try to make myself comfortable.
Looks like shy drank my scent as much as she wanted,
But I was being enchanted by her beautiful wings.
After not-so-long time passes,
What will we become?
Lady poet’s well;
I open its light cover and look into it.
I can’t see anything – pitch black well.
I see why nobody opens the cover.
The hamlet nobody visits;
Not sure why I am here.
Its door is open but
I don’t see any footsteps;
How lonely her well is!
However, however, however,
dark wells surrounding her well –
even without covers to lift.
She wouldn’t be lonely.
In the hamlet for poets only,
They give cuddle to each other passionately.
They provide comfort to each other profusely.
They throw praise to each other lavishly.
In the hamlet for poets only,
I will dig my own well – deep and very dark.
A well for me only.
She gives me a safe-like box.
“Don’t open it!”
I don’t see a lock on it.
Her secret in this small case?
But I don’t try to open it
‘cause I love her
The safe might be empty;
it might reek of decaying bug;
Ah! the container might contain her un-lovable look,
I will still love her, though.
“So, will you open it or not?”
The empty safe will make me laugh away.
I can just trash a dead bug in it.
Her unlovable look cherished in there
will make me love her more.
She takes the safe away from me;
my daydream is broken.
The small box is sinking deep in the pond.
Her secret becomes a secret for good just like this.
I measure the depth of the tarn.