They flood the rice fields
during the last week of May,
I observed from a home-bound
Beneath the rice lines
Another world reflected
Green shoots poke through sky
Over the Sokcho night
I counted twenty-three points of light,
scanned from the dock, as numberless
neon rainbow rods
shuddered on the water surface.
Seoul, I’m sorry.
what faithless folly,
present only with my pain,
Arrested, to Silence Prison sentenced
selfish actions, iron bars,
imperfections cage a monstrous heart.
Every other thought, a paring knife
I thought to peel away the difference.
Clumsy fingers always slipping,
cutting the fruit of life here,
red regret spoils all sweetness.
One last favor, please.
Bury these words
beneath the rice field glass
at last, something will grow there.