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.
During the last Holy Week
my heart was unusually hammering
not because Mary Magdalene’s heart
was transplanted to me,
which was yearning for Jesus’ Resurrection
but because my woman’s heart was thumping in me,
who would meet me on Easter Day for the first time.
Mary Magdalene’s heart that met Jesus
became the calm Galilee,
but why is the woman’s heart that met me
still whirling like the Tiberias under a storm?
Because of me who was pacing around
in front of the wide-open door and couldn’t enter?
During the next year’s Holy Week
would my heart be pounding instead of her heart?
I can’t go to Mars
to test my luck for survival.
so I create Mars on this Earth
by sucking up all the oxygen,
by drying up all the water,
by throw myself far away from the Sun,
and by living in thick ugly mask.
After 15 years, I am still alive on Mars
without doing anything to survive;
by depending on pure luck.
No wonder that none-existent humans
call me Martian.
What a monumental non-effort!
Why don’t you take off your stuffy
space suit? Who knows? You
might find out you are human
by not dying and your fortune
can live without your vizard.
But I like Mars’ barren soils –
Its desolate deserts –
Its naked mountains –
Its muffled silence-
Its utter emptiness.
Well, you may need a different skin
on your face.
In the middle of just another Lent;
I didn’t know spring would come only after Easter.
I didn’t know a new life had been brewing during the winter.
Something tremendous must be in store for me.
Something magnificent should be being shaped for me.
Those amazing things will come to life after Easter, only after Easter.
Snow in March won’t be able to blanket scurrying spring.
Cold rain won’t be able to flood resting spring.
They only will reinforce the hope for Resurrection in Easter.
What would be more fantastic and splendid than Jesus’ Resurrection?
So I expect something a lot less marvelous and with no impression;
a lot smaller and insignificant and trivial to none-me,
but something gargantuan and meaningful to me, only to me.
I clean up my room packed with trash
to make rooms for something wonderful.
My heart is pounding with lots of thrash.
I am holding my breath for anything fanciful.
Wake up, buddy! This shouldn’t be a dream.
Pounding heart in your dream is your heart.
You are holding your breath, not others’ in your dream
Keep dreaming ‘til real life wakes up in your heart.
Still, don’t be disappointed even though
Jesus is still in the tomb after Easter.
Wipe out ‘disappointment’ and grow.
Write down ‘enlightenment’ for your Master.
Wouldn’t ‘excitement’ be greatly better, would it?
The space that should be packed with her
is jammed with things that are not of her.
The time that should be flowing with her flapping
is running with birds that don’t have her fluttering.
A well that’s being overflowed with sea water
would be called an empty well.
The water is not the water
that butterflies other than her can’t drink, though.
The flower, like this
Is searching for her smile in the empty space;
Is searching for her signs in the empty time.
Dreaming a dream that she is lifting her veil up,
a flower that should become a play butterfly;
finally understands that space and time are the same thing.
Maybe a preview;
If I become a flower;
If I become a pretty flower,
Just like this,
I would be enraptured with flapping of butterflies;
I would be humbled by jealousy of other flowers.
For now just one minute.
But if I become a real flower.
I should live like this every day.
I believe she looked at me.
I didn’t look at her, though.
Perhaps I forgot to look.
I was afraid of her moist eyes?
I couldn’t resist her body language of desire?
Wouldn’t matter if it’s just an illusion.
I was enchanted with other butterflies.
If she had flown to me
I would have seen me in her eyes.
But I will be in her eyes?
If I become a flower;
If I become a pretty flower.