The concert of pebbles
garlands the liberal theology of a river
until the sight of boat trackers’ back
disappears in the prolonged final sound
The burden of existence returns to the river
but the notes stamped by bare feet
are unable to be erased from the heart
The dignified painting on the wall
is calling its brother silently
The Song of Volga Boatman
emerges history from the shadow of our fathers
but it never irrigates
the spirit of the next generation
The new language barrier
is not that the salt of snow statue will melt
but that the open area of a metaphor
has too many fists in which the veins appear
Confronting a surprised face
you see the haggard familiarity
The low door hung with red peppers
The history of dirt wall disappearing
Only today’s pale remains
because the history is modified
In order to satisfy today’s truth
it is necessary to prove a historical heritage
For some people
gray ordinary Sundays
shine brilliantly due to an oratorio
For others
just lying inside a fruit of sun
sleep, to return to the original start
and prepare for Monday’s footsteps of trackers
The symphony gradually slows down
The ship turns around on deep sea
The distance from rivers to the sea
you will cover with your entire life
The harvest may be a net
or may be a statue
Can interest and sublime be coincided
or alternately carry through
starting from a letter of indulgence?