#doooongRead
A Boy Like This
Who would know
The hidden places, the concealed plots hiding in his hair?
Who would know
This boy restores beauty, slipping into the tongue.
This boy, as he said, will remain at the core of the missile.
And who would know
The mysterious inhale, exhale—this boy,
Entering through the nose.
He was born in a half-awake dream,
A sensitive boy who likes to enter the carriage through the head,
Meeting a pearl-like, enchanting cradle.
And who would know
A boy like this,
Lurking at the ocean's mouth, wrapping around the stomach and ears.
To a boy like this,
To a boy like this,
Give a thief like this,
Who secretly scrapes away his germs.
#doooongRead
Behind my house, on the desolate mountain, stands a small hut built of wooden planks.
Every day, I clean out the drawers at home. When I’m not cleaning the drawers, I sit in a wicker chair with my hands flat on my knees, listening to the howling. The north wind fiercely lashes the shingled roof of the hut made from cedar bark, and the wolves’ howls echo through the valley.
“You’ll never finish tidying those drawers, humph,” my mother says, giving me a false smile.
“Everyone’s ears are broken,” I say, holding my breath to continue, “Under the moonlight, so many thieves linger around this house. When I turn on the light, I see countless finger holes poked into the window glass. In the room next door, your and father’s snores are unusually loud, shaking the bottles and jars in the cupboard. I kick the bedboard, turn my swollen head to the side, and hear the person locked in the hut furiously banging on the wooden door—a sound that lasts until dawn.”