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’.
A woman who’ve lost her husband
and have been living with her only son
whom she is betting her only hope on,
follows the funeral procession of her son,
blaming God who has no heart no mercy.
Who’s trying to steal my grief?
I am alive but not living.
Can’t I even cry?
Somebody puts hands on the coffin
of my precious son? How dare?!
Is this man maybe….
Jesus the famous?
I heard that he performed many miracles,
but can he raise the dead?
Rise? Who rises?
Is he telling me to stop crying and move on?
He surely doesn’t know the real world.
On my God, what is going on?
My dead son is talking?
What? Is my son risen from the dead?
This man is really Jesus?
Has he raised the dead?
Jesus raided two from the dead.
The dead son and his mother.
I can raise the dead too
by blow the hope into the dead
Just like God blew the breath of life
into dust of the ground.
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?