The watermelon, being stuffed
in a plastic bag held by an unwelcome
hand, came into my house. As if the hand
itself was not interested in what did come
with the bag, it didn’t even move
a finger when the house owner uttered
the empty words; “you didn’t have
to bring this.” The bag held
by the new owner was put in one
corner of the kitchen. No one,
neither the hand that brought the watermelon,
nor the hand that received the watermelon
cared if its taste was awesome or
awful. Perhaps they didn’t even care
if it was a real watermelon or not.
Although the melon, a mere whatnot,
survived being pushed in and out
of all the corners in the house, It never
was out of the bag. One day, the worn-out
bag was seen accidentally by the owner
and was thrown into the trash bin
with still breathing watermelon in it.
The thought that it might have been
the severest and delicious tidbit
In the world never occurred
to anybody in the house.
The watermelon never existed
from this world’s nascence.
A happy-looking man who
keeps throwing stones to
a murky horizon far far away
buried in a deep deep fog.
The happier-looking man who
Is gazing at the dim fluttering of
a seagull-like bird in a thick thick mist.
As if worshipping the horizon,
as if waiting for the fog to be lifted,
a happy rock with a look of
throwing stones into the sea water.
A very very old rock.
He was a real genius, she said.
Do we need a genius, for that kind of thing?
Alas! Because of all the fuss she made,
I couldn’t say that I was a genius too.
How fortunate I am!
I could just be a wine bottle for that genius,
it would be better if I could be a chair the beauty sit on
and it couldn’t be better if I were a bed
the genius and the beauty make love on
Don’t praise for my modesty.
How come he can be a genius without drinking wine?
How could beauty’s butt touch the floor?
A good bed is a must for a passionate sex.
This kind of cute ambition should be allowed, shouldn’t it?
I am just a prop
that takes whatever happen to me
and keep my place
While just watching admired genius and beloved beauty.
A prop that won’t reveal its ambition,
just like a forest that wraps the village,
just like a mountain that sustains the forest.
If ‘prop’ sounds too small,
How about calling it a stage background?
Nah, calling it just the stage?
How could a genius and a beauty exist
without a stage where they play on?
Just like the Earth on which humankind is living,
just like the Space in which the Earth is breathing,
the prop that has accomplished its long-cherished goal.
On a splendid day in October,
Be my bride.
Treading on the fallen leaves
With your bare feet,
Wearing short wedding dress,
Boasting of your beautiful legs
On which moist drizzle is flowing down,
Come to me.
To spend the unforgettable
Last night of October,
Make today a wonderful day.
Before this October passes away,
Be my bride.
To greet ash-colored November
With blue-sky-colored heart,
Be my October bride.
Wondering who this woman would be…
The lyric of a pop song is now my song.
I am trying to sink my root deeper in order to be a flower.
How can I dance trying to get closer to her?
If only I could just watch her.
If only she won’t vanish in the morning fog.
She would give up becoming a butterfly
so as to remain a flower for me.
Then we are a couple of flowers
gazing at each other, hiding our desires.
It might be a beautiful picture.
But rather would we be happy
if we are plucked together and
being withered in the tap water of the vase?
Would we be happy
if only we could just watch each other
and feel good as we are?
not necessarily supposed to
not necessarily reach orgasm
by being conquered.
Mountains feel just
content with uncontrollable exclamations from me
looking up from their feet.
Mountains often reach
orgasm by looking down on me with
I won’t try to
climb the unreachable summit.
I can hit my orgasm through
not being discouraged and
enduring contempt and insult from the mountains.
It’s a big tree
with its root like a strip of grass.
How the root endures that big frame is a mystery…
A little bird lands and sings a beautiful song.
A ray of jealousy hits the big tree.
The little bird boasting of its colorful feather
jumps around the wobbling twigs.
The gorgeous look of the bird brings
a shadow of despair that darkens the big tree.
The little bird,
its struggle to settle down on the big tree,
its singing to hurl jealousy to other birds.
The tree is aware of this or not?
the little bird that cherishes an ambition
bigger than the tree, which tries to carry
the big tree in its bosom.
The root of the big tree
digs deeper in the ground.