your vision, breath and time
permeate the dust
in the depth of your soul
the tomb inch by inch is
piled up from the feet
reaching the chest
reaching the throat
Sobering times when a writer as brave and as fine as Liu Xiaobo dies imprisoned by an authoritarian regime flirting with the West.
Biologically, he was no different to the rest of us.
A man who confronts the truth, discovers it cannot save him.
Poets were silenced during last year’s Gwanghwamun Square protests.
How quickly we burn. Our souls oppressed by the language of terror.
What kind of a nightmare is this? We have ravaged this world.
Our souls cry out in the darkness.
We suffer from amnesia, from entrenched silence.
This month I hope to spare time to rehearse my poems.
They should not be so quickly abandoned.
I would like to perform if I can. Let’s see if I can.
‘Joy’ is my favourite.
Poetry does not lie.
Poetry is like taking a drug at a nightclub.
When the drug wears off, you drive home with your friends, back to reality.