Not a shoveling mistake.
It’s time to get out.
I can’t imagine in this tiny birdcage
how stuffy and stifling you were.
Our love couldn’t be confirmed.
I thought I might die too.
It was lucky that you were not deep-rooted.
Let’s enjoy our love in the big world.
Let’s fly in the lofty sky to the fullest.
If this is just a painting I painted,
It would be a never-ending end.
If this is an intentional shoveling,
It would be a new beginning that eventually ends
Even though there will be an end,
I like to feel the butterfly’s antenna,
That is in raptures while licking my nectar.
If not, that’s ok.
No matter this way or that way, it’s my life.
No matter I do this or that, it’s still my life.
This picture that is now frozen, fortunately,
leaves the boring poetry for the world.
My pheasant that can’t be caught.
No. Instead of the pheasant that won’t get caught,
I try to stuff my starved stomach with chicken,
But even before I put that in my hungry mouth,
the chicken hits my nose with stinking smell.
Yeah, I will just watch it
even if I can’t eat it
until it’s talented sexy feathers are all stripped
and its beautiful posture
is no longer visible.
Well, then who knows?
The pheasant might offer its neck
to me who’s become a flower
that is standing mindlessly.
I think I watched too many period TV shows.
You don’t have to say ‘I love you’,
even if you are really in love.
Rather than the word ‘love’
that floats around like a madfly at summer day,
love is to smell the spot
that I was sitting.
If that is a real love,
the rusty smell of my life would be a sweet scent.
But I want to hear ‘I love you’,
even though it is really from her lust.
Well, can I survive the word ‘love’?
Just like when I wrote my first poem with pounding heart
after I heard the first confession of love,
I would finish this serial poetry with my heart
pounding like a fawn,
If I receive the confession love from her lips.
In this room where only we two are in,
you can say it is an expression of longing
or desire…or lust.
A flower is just standing there.
that doesn’t pull butterfly’s eyes
and gives itself to bee’s kissing.
The butterfly’s silence
even without the sound of flapping
is an exclamation
that burst out after aeon’s waiting?
The desire is for living a day
or for getting name-brand bag?
Is it a struggle of praying
like the calm Sea of Galilee?
I wish it were a butterfly faithful to its desire.
I hope it is not a gloomy stillness
after a battle for trying to escape the desire.