I want to look back at the bottom of the underworld
lying face down on the ground
at the sky water floating in the wind
winds held in a pond
tree roots hanging firmly on the moon
the blazing sun hanging instead of fruit
humanity's upside-down feet
thinking of the chaos of hunger
sinful eyes growing on the stomach
I want to see the burning
fire in my own fire
I want to see the river's thirst being quenched
All my desires are just like
as if a dead body suddenly
hiccups and remembers
some devil instead of God
I want the transfer of masks
to be canceled ghosts and spirits to plead for peace in this troubled world
Even if I'm afraid
I would turn upside down events lying straight to remove the unimaginative arrangement of words and write a poem that makes no sense
I want some fragment of meaninglessness
to make me realize that I can never write a significant poem with such arrogance
Has this period of uncertainty really overpowered me like this?
