Ghost was drunk, his mask broken like a fractured turtle shell.
He is wearing a green shirt, sleeveless.

He jumped onto the stage, putting on a smiling mask.
Faced with a bare wall, he had got only one audience, with his eyes open wide. 

Two stages,
Birdcage and Triangle 
are bonded by a rope.

The empty hall would always echo your crying. The bitter rose was cut by wall, killed.

Masker, please stop your crazy scream.
That eyes floating besides window, please go away!

Phantom Theater and Sunken Pyramid
are connected by an underground plaza, where lived the Actor, whose life was a performance.

The ground is so quiet, with traces form underworld:
two staircases, a silver pinwheel, an amphitheater with a tall glass leaf, and 
a long snaky corridor
Above the surface, 
Phantom Theater 
is sitting idly, furling its hair;
Sunken Pyramid
is penetrated by a crystal rosebud. 

Masker lives right in-between the bright and the dark, the right and the wrong. 
Who reflects who?

Where there is rye, 
where birds are flying low, 
where lacewing flies and apple cores began to wobble, 
I should have died there. 
Die in a circle, where time is not linear. 

The way I hate the world is the same as the way I love the nude.

Masker, the singing masker said, 
‘It is all an illusion.’

I gripped a coin, where engraved a ghost, with his green shirt.

I’m flying low, wheat grass touching my cheek
Like kisses of a naughty ghost.

The sun disappeared, whereas the sky is clear
I flew, flew, and flew, 
until my mask suddenly broke.