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Poem

—The sun in confined to a bed being seized with jaundice—

Although the neighbors and siblings were gone,
you and I most hold onto father’s arm for the sake of 
a deformed child’s fatality that couldn’t come and go as wish.

At the present, however, even the father, 
who I have once trusted, lost his crown of adolescence,
and blinks his hopeless eyes with his shaking limbs and body 
that has grown thinner and undergoes a trial of heavy silence 
being deprived of expressing a self.

It’ll be a white snowstorm soon
for the black wind is growing violent…
though abandoned, here is no oblivion,
for it is constrained abandonment.

Loneliness, therefore, approaches nearer
flapping its huge and dark wings.  Hence, 
all the more yearn for a tales of old days…

LI PO…li po…
LAFORGUE, JULES…laforgue, jules…

The echo in the middle of the air struck against the moon
and became an appeal of frozen stiff Leica that sounds hollow 
and painful, and to return to the tightly closed bosom of the earth
because the moon has thrown her thickened hypocritical veil.

However, even a laurel tree only grows in the moon
withered and dead by a curse called the twentieth century.
Even Jupiter seems deadly brown on this evening
as though the last leaf is hanging onto its dead limb.

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