That butterfly drinks cheap wine
and its wings are dyed reddish.
The flower deep in desire is peeping
at its stealthy flapping.
Unless this is not a flower garden,
if I am the only flower,
The floundering butterfly would have
flown to me. Wait on!
You are rooted shallow yet.
I am afraid the flower might be uprooted
with just a little pull of the petal.
Even though the root is too deep and
can reach the other side of the Earth,
a flower should never move.
Would it give up being a flower
because of reddish wings of the butterfly?
I got sick and tired of the name – Rose
In this rose garden crowded with roses.
Smiling Rose; now you come to know
what ‘flower’ really means. Don’t say,
rose! Rose! If you become a flower,
You will be a flower that is more beautiful
than a rose. Rose is for your eyes only;
It’s just a beautiful flower. I am who I am,
why am I rose? How come a human can
become a rose? You’re right. Live just
like that as always. Live just saying rose!
Rose! What a silly dream! Can I call it a
rose dream? When I wake up, Jesus
on the cross is in front of my eyes. Lord,
why do you talk hard sayings like this?
Jesus who smiles just like a rose…
I wonder why she’s become a Samaritan woman.
The man sitting by her is her husband.
She doesn’t seem to have gone through many men.
Well, nobody knows, though.
Just like a doe wandering about in the mountains looking for clear water,
she might have been trying to find a man who can cool down her burning heart.
That’s why she comes in here every Sunday
And throws up sizzling eyes to Jesus on the cross,
Like a woman hanging around the well,
Even though her husband has been with her all the time.
However, how Jesus without body can take woman’s volcano?
If she is a Samaritan woman, I would be Jesus.
I should become her Savior who provides never-dried spring water.
If I had a power like that of Jesus,
I would fall to Satan’s temptation that let me make a bread out of stone.
Since it looks like I don’t have that kind of charisma,
It would be just a passing wind.
I hope not.
Perhaps I am just another Don Quixote.
Then, most likely, that butterfly-like flower,
Beating the air with its awkward wings,
Hovering around over me, is another Dulcinea?
Even with her punctured stocking,
She is just a beautiful princess to me.
She may be a queen under a spell,
Whom I have to save. I shouldn’t let her
Come near me, but should just let her scent
Graze my nose, so that I could save her
Or not from the witch through blood battle.
No, I am not Don Quixote,
Then she is not Dulcinea.
She, hiding her cruel sexual desire
Behind the thick mask called faith,
Is just one of women strewn
All over this world.
Well, I am the Excalibur
That could pierce her impenetrable mask,
Which is my fantasy.
Just like this, she is still my Dulcinea.
Noisy birds in my backyard
have a lot to talk about,
like a girl in my arms
Birds kissing on the deck
have many things to share,
like a girl in a motel bed.
Singing bird by my window
tries to lure me into lust,
like girls on the street.
Birds flying away from my tree
have nothing to say to me,
like a girl showing her back.
I hear you guys are close. True?
What is ‘A man and a woman are close’?
Do I feel jealousy in her tone?
Close? Not at all.
I don’t look like I am lying,
but where is my hidden smile coming from?
Suddenly I miss her
who’s not in front of my eyes.
I miss you dearly.
A joke-like outcry thrown in public.
A pollen flown awkwardly before Spring has come.
As women’s suspicious glances become the spring breeze
and makes my heart pounding,
this flower will root deeper?
Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the
sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the
flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept
taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have
been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The
happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?