The black hair I wish to brush.
The black two-piece I wish to iron.
Not being able to receive Jesus’s body,
Kneeing and praying alone,
Her name is perhaps Magdalene.
With ordinary wildflower-like face,
Is she returning to her lonesome Sunday morning room
where hanging crucifix is the only decoration,
dragging her pitiful caves barely standing
on her high heels that is likely to break.
Was her look that of the adulterous woman
who was dragged in front of Jesus?
Was her posture was that of the extravagant woman
who wiped Jesus feet with fragrant oil?
Was her mind that of the desperate woman
who became a puppy in front of Jesus?
A just average-looking woman
who has become a sinful woman
though the mystery of the Pascha,
out of the imagination of a sin-festered man.
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.
When I felt the end of it,
her back came into my sight.
Just like the dark side of the moon,
She was black from her hair to the high heels,
which was not her look I’d been familiar to
Being taken aback and Just shaking my head
I couldn’t refute the words
popped from her rosy lips.
I was just shaking my head
since I was taken aback.
The truth is hiding in her darkness?
Just like there is no truth in the dark side of the moon,
her words were just words
and just a desperate gesture
that finally nailed this long journey.
Or was that the sound that
the root of a flower was drilling the rock?
As if this is the real end
so I can see the world through her
who’s become invisible
and I don’t have to hate her.
A little fantasy that started from my throbbing heart
was too big for kid’s small mind,
so I wanted to run toward God’s bosom,
but while hesitating, hesitating, delaying, delaying,
the fantasy was growing, growing, getting bigger and bigger,
bouncing and jumping like a sparrow
and finally became an eagle and its wings covered the sky,
and lift the tent that shielded the bottom.
When I saw the white veil that wrapped the bottom,
my pounding heart removed the veil
and plunged into the bottom, into the bottom,
but the fantasy that penetrated deep into my life
and captured the dream of the flower,
has no bottom, doesn’t it?
Wishing the butterfly would dream the same fantasy…
The flower smiled.
It hardly smiled before.
The smiling flower by a butterfly with big bright smile.
Is smile contagious too?
Was it feeling good standing by the butterfly?
The flower doesn’t decide to smile a lot from now on.
Because flower without smile is still a flower.
Because flower should not smile too much.
I, who didn’t know how to smile,
might have been born as flower?
I know I was raised as a butterfly among butterflies
Just like an eagle that was raised among chicks?
Who called the butterfly ‘check’?
How come a flower can be an eagle?
No matter what kind of similes they are.
I am not I who was when I was born,
but I will be I who will be when I die…
So would I smile like a flower?
Just like the smiling butterfly by me?
I should’ve passed by
just waving my hands.
A wobbling flower snooping around her.
Butterfly’s reluctant nodding.
Where is yesterday’s bright smile?
I forgot that I would be a flower?
I didn’t know I just have to blow scent?
That is why I am still going.
Not sure I am really taking roots.
It wouldn’t easy for a butterfly to become a flower.
Why is it trying to be a flower?
I was just staying in this spot.
It was the butterfly that flew to me.
Making her a butterfly like this,
and becoming a pretty-blossomed flower,
and finishing this childish serial poetry,
And spreading the wings hidden,
let’s go to the rose garden.
Well, no! Wait a little bit more.
Who know I might really become a flower?!
It was not a smile of enlightenment.
It was not a smile of self-satisfaction from understanding.
It was not a smile of ecstasy of being a Buddha’s successor.
Because I am not Buddha.
It was a smile of joy.
It was Holy Mother’s smile seeing angel Gabriel.
It was not a smile of God’s Mother shouldering world’s suffering.
Because I don’t want to be an angel.
It was a smile of love.
I’d never seen such a smile shining like the Sun.
Her sub-conscience has received the light of the rising Sun?
I am her Sun? Really? Nah…
It was a smile of delight that couldn’t be hidden.
The delight that the beautiful wild flower was found in deep remote mountain.
Oh! How come this pretty flower is here! Woman’s shouting for joy.
It was a sound of a wingbeat of a butterfly that flown to this deep mount.
Will there be a day that I can see that smile again?
Entering in the valley where I am in blossom,
she might get lost as if it is a fate.
Then I have to in blossom shabbily by her road,
Risking of being trampled to death by people?
It was just a simple of not going amiss.
Just like a person who showed a simile of enlightenment,
The immaculate smile that meets the truth.
Then am I the truth?
What is truth?
Jesus’ mysterious smile answering this question.
A man who is being loved,
who wants to interpret as ‘the truth is the person I love’.