“Don’t go, please.”
It grabs my ankle
with its beautiful vine.
“Well, shall I not?”
It knows the smell of my fatigued feet?
It hears the rumor about the wind I have in tow?
One day out of nowhere
It had burst into bloom on the roadside.
“I’ve been waiting for you…”, I hear.
Now I should stop being a vagabond,
holding its heart in my bosom,
and listen to its beating
Before this road ends,
shall I try a little bit further?
“Don’t go, please.”
“I’d like to know what kind of man you are.”
My chastity is now on cliff edge.
I would’ve rather remained silent.
Ah! But, In King’s bed where
concubines used to sleep on both sides,
the king is sleeping diagonally.
Queen’s jealousy makes him chaste.
King is not a king.
“You think you are a man…”
The king won’t have to hear
woman’s voice leaving disappointed
so King’s sleep is comfortable and
Just like Adam who put all blame to Eve,
I’m wondering how long my chastity will last…?
A poor painter –
building the world only for him –
won’t paint people’s world.
That is why he is so impoverished.
A beautiful woman –
crouching down her body –
is looking for a crack
to get in his tiny world.
How small are you –
Trying to come into my world;
A bird nest that is too small even for me?
An obscure poet who
fills his empty mind
with his own world,
Is a poor painter.
Fill your void with me fully.
Perhaps if you can see the people’s world,
you could be still poor but happy.
When the beautiful Queen Vashti
(Is there a not-beautiful queen?…)
was giving a banquet for noble women and
was enjoying gossip of the palace,
(Women are women….both then and now…)
The sloshed King Xerxes,
Trying to show off the beauty of Queen Vashti to his nobles,
(Men are men…both then and now…)
summons Vashti to his banquet.
Then, see what happened!
The queen was supposed to run like a 100-meter Olympian
to the King in the most fancy garment.
But Vashti refused to come!
(Is this a true story?…)
If a rumor that the Queen disobeyed the King comes out,
all women would disdain their husband.
This judgment striped the Queenship from Vashti, but
it wouldn’t be surprise since pioneers are usually sacrificed.
No matter how glamorous the life in palace is,
She would rather live free as a country woman
than live as one of ornaments of her King husband.
(Nobody knows what happened to her after…)
This genuine feminism has been evolved…
Now men have become ornaments of women…
Would Vashti be pleased?
Sound of harmonica being played by a nameless
and faceless woman; I can only hear the green
music through the grapevine from the other side
of the Pacific, but the depression starts releasing
its tight grip little by little without letting me know.
The cheerful laughter of the woman I love;
I can hear the jangling only through my heart,
but happiness knocks on my window just like
a dew-soaked sparrow at autumn daybreak.
The fresh chorus of wild blossoms; I can only hear
through my desire-filled eyes, but the singing raises
my weighty life up, gives it a big bright smile and let
it stand up with a small stretch; The life that used to
tumble over a tiny jagged stone on a gravel road.
Now I realize
Life is this small.
He is a lot taller than me.
He runs a lot faster than me.
He must be a lot stronger than me.
He seems a lot more pious than me.
He speaks English a lot better than me.
He should be a lot better person than I.
A lot a lot a lot….
He smiles at me
everytime we catch each other
while he is running
while I am walking
in the opposite direction.
His smile looks friendly pure genuine innocent.
I know what those words sum up; idiotic.
Perhaps I am an idiot
looking for another idiot
just like a buddha wants to see only other buddhas.
Not a good analogy?
But good enough for an idiot who
doesn’t know how to smile at all
let alone to do idiotic one.
I ought to learn his idiotic smile.
to embrace it
with whole body,
knowing it will be pricked.
to take thorns
to the whole body and
to bleed to death,
dreaming a ridiculous dream
of full blossom
In a desert.
believing to die is not to die
The butterfly that never loved;
its incessant flutter
in front of the Rose –
to love or not to love.