I’m told
we are a puny race.
Doors locked even in daytime,
bathing our eyes with “Trust Drops,”
we read light essays, hugging the stove.
Dragging the anguish of no place to hide
like a soldier with one or two chevrons on the arm,
you travel the country from Kimhae to Hwachon,*
winter fatigues hanging on you,
a canteen flapping at your side.
 
Wherever you turn, barbed wire,
at every wire, a checkpoint.
I do not understand this love,
this smothering jealous love.
 
I spread my gloved hands, palms up.
Snow falling for some time now,
a snow colder than snow.

 
*From Kimhae to Hwachon: from the southernmost part to the northernmost part of South Korea.