”The Barren Grave

Butterflies scattered like Arabian numerals.
The march of printing types like sharp knives.

One day----
Marte standing by seashore sings with crows.

The scenery spreads its hands at the moment.
The pupils of ivory!
The eyes, eyes of crows sitting on the cross.

The smell of smoke flowing from towns,
And the cross road where flags of different colours
Fluttering like the last intention.
----Here I suddenly stopped my steps.

Yes.
The devil is nothing but a handsome dresser.
The graves of Emperor Winter
Enjoys the eternal sleep as an iceberg.
But I am suffering unexpectedly from a habit of drawing out a faded map from my pocket.

I fold a newspaper, the smell of ink.
  -----The landing of a typhoon
   Is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning!

The back-view of an insurance man coming out of the church,
The back feature of a black cat.
On the cross-road in the afternoon
A disabled funeral car is standing like a butterfly.”

--Bong-nê Yi