There is a small goat

On the field somewhere

It seems he is alone

It seems a first love

It seems nine years have passed

and so the misery begins

Cries of the goat can be heard as laughters of the goat

The goat eats half cynically

With certain boredom of a bourgeois

With certain distance of an artist

With tears of a being on earth

Someone approaches far from the meadows

To release the goat

Or to educate

The wind blows strong

Almost too strong for a small goat

Therefore the goat stays firmly, balancing

With the force of gravity, climbing

With the vigour of capability

With all its commands to each muscle

With a song of influence

At the back of the mountains

The poet sings of the goat

As if to break an engagement

Much pressure’s felt

On the three fingers that touch the pen

On the stomach with worries and doubts

Searching for something that can hold of her

Searching to exist as an extreme necessity

For the meadow, or

To somebody

Or, for the goat that stumbles along with drops of rain


I heard at dawn a bird over my head

Saying that we need to express

Our regrets and sorrows

That memory means to lament

That living means to mourn

Little plant that died from lack of water

In the name of Jeon Tae Il

That we’d count the men died for the Roman Empire

1,000,000 men and my grand-mother

Stories of sacrifices are made to console

Yet the girls and boys died before their teachers

We mourn and we cry

Even to that little something dead in my soul


There is a box

In the box there is a language

In the language we bow

In the language we shake hands

In the language we wave hands

In the language we proclaim our love

In the language we make the invisible, visible

Sometimes this box is thrown in the gutter

Then we shout out loud to be heard

Sometimes this box is placed on the sharp point of the pyramid

Then we whisper not to get hurt

Sometimes this box has no language

Then we are very very happy


a mirror,
a mask,
an half angel? an half devil?

art is vulnerable
art is protective
art is magic of the counter-world

memories fade
words, things, signs and emotions
something must have been important
or funny
trying to cross railway lines without the glasses
but they exist again and again


Let’s accept the fact that they are very coincidential, our decisions
Though, the first encounter, always with the bubbles from the predestinations

I am secretly in love with dreamers because I have no dreams

Look at the faces of lovers and they are framed sadly
Desires, wishes all in one scoop blowing away in the wind
We say we fall in love because we fall into the tears, traces and hair
Who ever said that love makes us danse so ever lightly like feathers
We lock our love tight but it might be too heavy and become dangerous
I will be careful as not to do things he dislikes
Rather than trying to do things he like