Rejecting her gesture and voice
without even letting my ego know,
hiding my gesture and voice
deep in my ego,
with boring spiritual lecture
as a background music,
seeing her over there in front
as the heroine in a movie,
I was a man swallowing a pain
In the dark movie theater
watching a movie with my lust.
It was fortunate
that I was not fallen
into her stealthy temptation
and I was not tricked by my own trap.
I almost forgot
that I was becoming a flower.
But I could try to compare
my pain of lust and desire
with the pain of Jesus on the cross.
The agony of Jesus
was not from flesh-piercing nails,
not from people’s merciless contempt,
but from the sugary temptation
of Mary Magdalene,
so even though I am dozing
on the hard chair in sanctuary,
my pain of not materializing the lust
is not less than the pain of Jesus.
Just like Jonah with his language of fear
Who saved the people of Nineveh
The flower whose prior life was a butterfly,
Groping for the memory of flying
And loading its language of temptation on the pollen,
Flies it through the wind of the early summer.
The butterfly whose prior life was a flower,
Refreshing the memory of its root,
And accepting the destiny as it is….
Just like believers who reached
The illusion of salvation with priests’ language of threat,
Just like Mary Magdalene
Who saw a phantom of resurrected Jesus,
My lover is at my feet.
Every single word by word
Becomes a temptation and covers the garden,
Just like a prophet standing tall on the Athens plaza,
The flower consumed by fear,
Driving its root deep….
She is lying in her coffin.
Jesus’ voice might be for her?
“Wake up! Do not fall into temptation by a clumsy wolf.”
Nah, his voice could be for me,
which would be a plea to my heart
that is pounding not because of Jesus
who is hanging on the cross behind the altar,
but because of the butterfly’s creamy wrist,
which is drawn to the flower’s scent.
It is I who is lying in the coffin.
“She will entrust you with her shiny wrist.”
Jesus’ words have come true.
Being drawn to flower’s back view
the butterfly that sprints to the flower
will entrust only its hands?
Lazarus who never comes out.
Right. Rather dream about honey and milk
In the tomb than comes out and die again.
I, who haven’t caught her signal,
maybe really is dead?
I think I hear Jesus’ desperate voice.
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.
During the last Holy Week
my heart was unusually hammering
not because Mary Magdalene’s heart
was transplanted to me,
which was yearning for Jesus’ Resurrection
but because my woman’s heart was thumping in me,
who would meet me on Easter Day for the first time.
Mary Magdalene’s heart that met Jesus
became the calm Galilee,
but why is the woman’s heart that met me
still whirling like the Tiberias under a storm?
Because of me who was pacing around
in front of the wide-open door and couldn’t enter?
During the next year’s Holy Week
would my heart be pounding instead of her heart?
In the middle of just another Lent;
I didn’t know spring would come only after Easter.
I didn’t know a new life had been brewing during the winter.
Something tremendous must be in store for me.
Something magnificent should be being shaped for me.
Those amazing things will come to life after Easter, only after Easter.
Snow in March won’t be able to blanket scurrying spring.
Cold rain won’t be able to flood resting spring.
They only will reinforce the hope for Resurrection in Easter.
What would be more fantastic and splendid than Jesus’ Resurrection?
So I expect something a lot less marvelous and with no impression;
a lot smaller and insignificant and trivial to none-me,
but something gargantuan and meaningful to me, only to me.
I clean up my room packed with trash
to make rooms for something wonderful.
My heart is pounding with lots of thrash.
I am holding my breath for anything fanciful.
Wake up, buddy! This shouldn’t be a dream.
Pounding heart in your dream is your heart.
You are holding your breath, not others’ in your dream
Keep dreaming ‘til real life wakes up in your heart.
Still, don’t be disappointed even though
Jesus is still in the tomb after Easter.
Wipe out ‘disappointment’ and grow.
Write down ‘enlightenment’ for your Master.
Wouldn’t ‘excitement’ be greatly better, would it?
Again today, I
head for the small clearing in my enormous forest,
cherishing child’s naïve dream,
receiving threat of the Sacrament of Reconciliation,
hearing a plea that the clearing should be filled with Jesus.
A little bird that would bring a news of her coming
didn’t come, but she would fill up the clearing
which nobody or nothing can squeeze in.
The reeling of any twigs,
The sorrow of feebly falling leaves,
can’t replace her mysterious smile.
The sound of undressing of autumn trees
can’t be compared with the thrill of taking off her veil.
the clearing is filled with her esoteric fragrance,
not because of weary autumn rain visiting every day,
not because of the November standing dubiously
between Autumn and Winter,
not because of her holed socks,
but because of the wobbling of the shallow-rooted flowering tree
that hasn’t gone through the winter of endurance.