Airport Terminal 2
By Wolran Kim
A military plane, bleached white, returns to the ground
The battle of life, back from guarding flying dreams
collected separately as rusty weapons at every stop
All passengers will return to their missions
Grieving Nomads build houses between clouds after losing shepherds
and carving fossils of the Diaspora as 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 fleshiness
Blue sounds of tidewater evaporates 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 the earth
A tough skeleton of soul lies as a mummy in the birthplace
A snowfield welds to the desert over the horizon, flutters 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
By Wolran Kim
A military plane, bleached white, returns to the ground
The battle of life, back from guarding flying dreams
collected separately as rusty weapons at every stop
All passengers will return to their missions
Grieving Nomads build houses between clouds after losing shepherds
and carving fossils of the Diaspora as 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 fleshiness
Blue sounds of tidewater evaporates 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 the earth
A tough skeleton of soul lies as a mummy in the birthplace
A snowfield welds to the desert over the horizon, flutters 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
