The Fragrance of Poetry The time is the bright morning When the birds come down from the blue sky I sit in the shade of a tree and write poetry. Poetry resembles a picture, drawing the low houses window frames with beautiful patterns and red roof tiles. Poetry resembles music, writing the brief shout of a child running across the yard and the red ball the sound of the wind blowing across the wide fields and the sour moment of the apple falling. Poetry blooms inside all things like the scent released from the center it fills the wide sky strokes my face and the tip of my nose. Poetry is on the small journal that the poor pencil scratched against. When the journal is shut poetry becomes the fragrance of fruit shut with a stopper Poetry is the small dirty journal resting deep in my backpack until my wife clandestinely opens it tomorrow morning. -Meteora, Greece
시집 <비파 소년이 사라진 거리>에 수록된 시이다.