The Dismantling Wall of a Museum



One day she told me
to become
the fable of deteriorating old faces,
the bag of the scattered dry roses.
I kept quiet.
Facing yellow sunshine,
I am looking into the landscape of night.

Who has stolen the greenery?
Fragrance has disappeared.

Seasons are dry.
Rivers are filthy.
Dust is everywhere.
Come, let us search in our stopping blood.
the seasonal greenery.
Let us create new words.