Again today, I
head for the small clearing in my enormous forest,
cherishing child’s naïve dream,
receiving threat of the Sacrament of Reconciliation,
hearing a plea that the clearing should be filled with Jesus.
A little bird that would bring a news of her coming
didn’t come, but she would fill up the clearing
which nobody or nothing can squeeze in.
The reeling of any twigs,
The sorrow of feebly falling leaves,
can’t replace her mysterious smile.
The sound of undressing of autumn trees
can’t be compared with the thrill of taking off her veil.
the clearing is filled with her esoteric fragrance,
not because of weary autumn rain visiting every day,
not because of the November standing dubiously
between Autumn and Winter,
not because of her holed socks,
but because of the wobbling of the shallow-rooted flowering tree
that hasn’t gone through the winter of endurance.
What is that wobbling target?
What is this bow I am holding?
Why am I on this tiny boat?
Why am I staggering on this rolling water?
With a unleashed fantasy and
With a petty sense of guilt thrusted into a hip pocket,
I set out on a trip with her.
Nobody would dare to paint over my painting.
My name and her name are lying side by side;
My winged illusion has become a reality in this fashion.
When my heart that’s been pounding with great joy,
sees a hole in her sock, it picks up a small boat
and rows toward the center of the lake.
Lay down your bow!
How could you be a flower if you act like a hungry bird?
How come you try to uproot yourself?
If you wobble like a reed in the wind,
could you become an easy target for her?
Ah! I too have a fierce life….
Being dragged by women with plenty of lechery,
He was thrown in front of a man called Jesus,
who asked what this was about. This man insulted
us. He seduced us with moist poems full of sultry
words. He poured ‘I love you’ like a shower in a hot
summer afternoon and let our curve be exposed
and have us dream of Heaven. He just watched
without even trying to dry up our revealed bodies
and thus left us in this empty lonely wilderness.
How can we make up for this insult? We tried
to punish this man with stones. Jesus, writing
something on the ground, breaks silence.
Whoever among you doesn’t have lust stone
him. At his words, from old hag to young girl,
they discard stone of hate and leave. Jesus
to the man, where are those women who judge
you? I won’t judge you either. As a man myself,
I understand you, but do not see a woman
as a flower from now on. In Heaven, anything
will be more beautiful than flowers. Jesus words
– ‘I won’t judge you’ – how scary punishment
It is! A butterfly that was robbed of flowers
– wouldn’t it be a heroic death like a martyrdom
of Stephen if I rather were stoned to death?
You shall be a flower? You were born as
a flower and in your whole life, giving
out fragrance, you’ve seduced honey
bees like street women. You tried to fly
even though you didn’t have wings. Nah!
you’ve been living in despair because
you couldn’t fly even though you didn’t
have wings to spread. You envied butterflies
that were flying around this flower and that,
but you didn’t see honey bees that was
stealing your nectar industriously. You don’t
hear the sound of my wings hovering over
you? I, the Queen bee, myself came to you
being attracted to the fragrance of the sweet
nectar you’ve been hiding deep deep in you.
You think it’s dream? You say it’s a fairy tale?
You believe it’s a fantasy novel? You worry it
would be the end of the world because the
Queen Bee abandoned her hive? They might
be true. So break the lock of the vault of your
basement and wake up your true nectar that
has been sleeping for many decades. Wake it
up! Wake it up! This is a temptation! I shouldn’t
have seen her legs and buttocks in her jeans.
I shouldn’t have felt her wind and frost engraved
in her fine wrinkles around her eyes. I didn’t know
I had a vault in my basement, deep in my mind.
With frolicking colorful fantasies in my mind,
as I am trying to get closer to her;
Stay put right there!
A flower emits fragrance in one spot.
It will die if a flower leaves its place.
Did she see my ugly picture?
Your look –
just stay there as they are.
Do not make a sloppy copy of
Only your songs,
Just drawing any pictures in your head
will be a sin.
When the time comes,
if my ear touches your lips,
Give me a furtive confession.
I will give you a covert forgiveness.
What punishment would you want?
We are too much ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?
We are only just in Chapter 2.
With my eyes wide open
during the Sunday Mass,
I dreamt a dream;
I raised a veil of the flower,
which unveiled another veil
that veiled another flower;
When I saw this beautiful blossom,
my dream started this way.
I wish she were a real butterfly,
not just in name only.
With my wings folded,
I’ve become a flower
and I flow my scent out bit by bit,
‘till the butterfly feels happy
after being poisoned by the fragrance.
She says; I am already happy now!
Do we know what the happiness is?
She doesn’t have tears, I hear;
She can’t weep when dumped by a man.
So she used to kick man away first.
Giggling at the man holding his stick in agony,
She comforted her sorrow
that she couldn’t shed tears.
Alas! She can’t dump me, though;
In spite of those many crappy days together.
She might be humiliated by not being able to cry
If deserted by me.
She can’t enjoy throwing me away
She can’t do anything about loving somebody.
She says she doesn’t need tears.
She weeps with her whole body.
She sheds tears through her feeble flesh.
Tears doesn’t come out only from eyes, I should say
Shedding tears is not the same as weeping, is it?
She is always sobbing even without tears.
In this way, I am stuck in her,
since I can’t make her weep;
woman who can’t shed her tears….