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.
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?
You are wearing blue jean.
So what? Even homeless man wears it.
Right! This is a beacon fire.
Something is coming or
Just a door-knocking sound.
If the fire comes down the mountain
And swoop on me,
Then I would become a burning bush
Seducing old Moses.
Struggling to climb to the top of the mountain
Might make you uprooted so
Just stay put and wait for
A young butterfly
With lots of dreams
Coming and be trapped
By its own snare.
That butterfly would be circling around
With Armani in its mouth?
Because I should be a flower.
She, trying to upload her name to the cloud,
seems to want to fly a tower of babel up to the sky.
I attach wings to the flower holding a fort
and it’s become a real butterfly.
Will it be wandering from stars to stars in the Universe
fluttering its fallen-leaf-like wings?
I am here, my lady!
I, being on this blue star called Earth
is trying to grab wings of the passing butterfly.
It is I who tried to upload a tower of babel!
How fortunate that I am a boy who
is building a sand castle on the beach!
She might want to be a mother who
raises a newborn baby.
Millions of scandals couldn’t stop Bill
from getting to the top of the Sequoia tree.
Even sex with a little bird in the top leaf
was not able to pull him down from that highest spot.
With all of these filthy scandals,
not a single leaf was shaken in the tree.
How deep is the root of this huge tree?
Otherwise, is this a cloud floating in the sky?
We’ll see if Don is able to shake even one twig.
This tiny house where a flower
that hasn’t become a butterfly and a butterfly
that hasn’t become a flower are in together.
would be collapsed by a single ant?
How could a minikin like an ant do such a thing?
But a scandal between a flower and a butterfly,
who are more minuscule than an ant
could destroy the building in an instant.
The nest they are in is just a sand castle,
which even ants are not needed to be destroy,
Is it just a collective rootless formless phantom
in people’s heads?
This castle that the butterfly is settled for snugly
might become a paper shack
that would be swept out by the flood
from the scandal ensued from a mysterious
word of that bird?
Is this place that looks like a sand castle
a just a clearance in the forest where
the flower and the butterfly stay together?
What if I rumor the scandal to prove
that I am at least a small tree with thin roots
deep in the earth and with branches
looking up toward the sky?
Why do you live?
The lyric of a pop song is now my song.
I am trying to sink my root deeper in order to be a flower.
How can I dance trying to get closer to her?
If only I could just watch her.
If only she won’t vanish in the morning fog.
She would give up becoming a butterfly
so as to remain a flower for me.
Then we are a couple of flowers
gazing at each other, hiding our desires.
It might be a beautiful picture.
But rather would we be happy
if we are plucked together and
being withered in the tap water of the vase?
Would we be happy
if only we could just watch each other
and feel good as we are?
It’s a big tree
with its root like a strip of grass.
How the root endures that big frame is a mystery…
A little bird lands and sings a beautiful song.
A ray of jealousy hits the big tree.
The little bird boasting of its colorful feather
jumps around the wobbling twigs.
The gorgeous look of the bird brings
a shadow of despair that darkens the big tree.
The little bird,
its struggle to settle down on the big tree,
its singing to hurl jealousy to other birds.
The tree is aware of this or not?
the little bird that cherishes an ambition
bigger than the tree, which tries to carry
the big tree in its bosom.
The root of the big tree
digs deeper in the ground.