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Poem
Everyone, from children to grownups, 
carry the world in their hands, they see the past 
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers; 
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of 
illusion and reality. 

The little glass plate they are staring at is, 
though, a two dimensional world, they go 
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos. 

Because you see everything at the same time 
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image 
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.

When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held, 
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though 
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood 
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths 
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all, 
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain, 
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.  

For a grownup, 
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air 
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.

From the touch of smooth 
but cold skin of the snake, 
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.  

The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time, 
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil 
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though 
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.

The grownup who haunted by anguish, 
walks on the path of life and death, because 
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through 
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers 
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.

It’s outrageous but, 
all generations alive today, seem to be confined 
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
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