1.
It’s a splendid spring day, the last century gone.
An earplugged janitor sweeps up the failed metaphors,
as the pollen scatters in every direction, utterly helpless,
such fine words scheming to bring tears. In this era,
when an allergy can trump religion,
ruin and redemption aren’t hard to come by.
2.
You should’ve at least called
I was so lonely, I thought I would rather be ill
with some disease, but yesterday, as it grew late, I went down
to the river to play. The moonlight floated over the current
like the finely torn pages of your letter in that envelope you
sent back, and I wanted to devote myself to each and every
constellation packing the night sky. I underwent many
conversions in those days, so that I might forget you.
3.
The runaway child libertine
is returning home for supper,
covered head to toe in pollen, as proof of his wanderings.
Out in the desert, Father, your eyes sting mercilessly.
That was no desert, child. It was just the park playground.
Tomorrow, when I go, I shall never return.
What you need isn’t resolve but a pocketful of credit cards.
4.
O mystery of life, dashed to little bits
and scattered like pollen,
O disheartened god, stretching yourself
awake on the cross,
souls of every shape and color have nestled into my body,
its every nook and cranny,
and they are all too small for blame.
© by Shim Bo-sun
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