3) Airport Terminal

     Wolran Kim

 

1

A military plane, bleached white, returns to the ground
The battle of life, back from guarding flying dreams
Collected separately like rusty weapons at every stop
All passengers will return to their missions
Grieving Nomads build houses between clouds after losing their shepherds
And carving fossils of the Diaspora like silver wings
There is no war dead yet
However, vomit from twelve-hour flight meals in the middle of first-class
Drew an aimless map of all the places he has flown
The traces of wandering, even without wings control with a remote
At peaceful internal airlines, mixed blood stains the ivory flesh
Blue sounds of tidewater evaporate, wearing a harsh accent
Large indoor plants translate the infancy forest of reeds simultaneously
In manipulating laptop monitors at every snack bar
A third-world country man in a wheelchair is coming close, rolling along the earth
A tough skeleton of soul lies as a mummy in the birthplace
A snowfield welds to the desert over the horizon, fluttering as a drawing on an easel
The edge of the eyelid gets wet brightly over the veils of the tide
We are the suicide terrorist who jump into the sunset wearing bandoleers
Of yearning to find crude oil behind the hidden layers
Here is a solitary crater blasting riots of the soul often
We are Janus, gripping and bowing to a goddess that gives rest for the end
We hide from the paradox, execute our anniversaries of death
Say the magic words as native speakers without any accents
Become foreigners sinking in a swamp of longing
Become midday moons, looking pale in front of the purity of sunshine
This is the first trip after realizing, the road has been familiarly brainwashed
Guidance lights are tempting properly wandering souls over the runway

 

2

Two portraits in the hangar

Are getting stranger whenever they’re facing each other

Did I believe I could replace their fate from twelve hours of flying?

Every time people check in their identities with passports

Beginning and ending points take off and land

Two feet always land on the idle land

Such as cheating lovers, like this

I want to leave the noisy crowd

I thought I would reach the higher spot if I were carried by wings

The leading light is blinking on the escape route even in the daytime

To impatient days without moving

To irritating days without being a marginal person

Missing the day I’d never be embarrassed

Every time they pass the scanner, naked with hands up

I just dream about my future reflected in front of blue eyes

People carry their brains, which never fell in love with blond blood

They want to go back to the dead languages’ land

And act like they’ll never come back again

They become fugitives from their own unbearable persecution

And stand in a line like wild animals who want to be tamed

The refugees who have only wealthy brains

Check in their bags, only able to drag them as their lives

Will pass the tax-free zone while evading everyday taxes

Throughout the windows, huge silver birds

Are swallowing up late immigrant bags as always

The four seasons of the earth are living together in the airport

All border men with two tongues fit in pretty well here

They put all their past, blocked from the heavy snow, in their passports

It is a bright day and even the fog had been exiled

The wind bluster bluffs without a nationality