Constantly inclined to start talking to anyone,
sitting idly in a room with the light out,
looking like an eye eager to blossom as us, not alone,
echoing long with whistles of birds somewhere mixed with sighs,
piercing earth’s strata then waiting for the feet to grow hotter,
a bolt from the blue passing,
turning into the pupils of the eyes of utter darkness,
hugging your back then beaming broadly,
winter,
and in that winter
that longed to close its eyes and go down endlessly to the bottom of a lake
then open its eyes and die,
I now go walking into a spring-tree
longing to start talking endlessly to the wind.
Kim Su-Bok (born 1953) South Korea
Translated by Brother Anthony
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