Shakespeare’s Scribe
and the Conference of the Birds
Face turned skyward in the sunlight
I saw a flock of birds dismantling their nests
to move because of the smell of butter.
Shakespeare’s scribe felt confused
where he should write from, because a thousand birdsongs
with a shrill tone always scratched wounds
on the branches and even the fallen leaves
on the soles of my feet.
Oh, birds, drink the dew
don’t stab my eyes with my beak
I am only a scribe, nothing more
and if you want a cooler room
I will find you a block of ice,
to further nourish the grudge
you have woven all night long.
Broken wings of birds
resting among the branches when attacked by the wind.
“I could scarcely understand, though the sky was so dark
and the rain was about to fall in the middle of the lonely night.
Shakespeare’s scribe
recorded and made the birds not to murmur,
and wandered everywhere
for they had long written their own stories,
after being hit by arrows came
among the branches that shed tears.
Lear
Then you lay down crying without stopping
while at the end of the night there is always someone who wants to come
to stab the dagger and then go home
bringing silent songs and sprinkled with wilted flowers.
Here you say, loneliness I always carry
but the grudge you keep always flows like a river
that doesn’t know where it ends
Lear you are good at guessing
although the umbrella of sorrow you always open and close
with your tears on your eyelids.
