2) The History of Evening

     Wolran Kim

 

As newborns, the dawn wears the body of a dayfly and the morning bends its back. Then, there is already a spot of an old blood vessel. There is a clear, salty spot that flows looking back. If I reach there,

 

Riding and sitting, there are many anonymous stations I pass with the names of the days, like an express train. A trace of footprints follows along a vein of light. The place of disappearance becomes home while the damp noise loses its voice. If I reach there,

 

Secret flowers close their eyes halfway, giving and receiving words of wildflowers. The dark alley puts down its blinds in the comfortable spots where the farewell rests. Eyes stare through the windows under the roofs where artificial light is locked in. If I reach there,

 

Between the poor morning and helpless night, there is a place where border men drink hypnosis as a habit, calling slow souls, then shutting their bloodshot eyes of the sky. The place where I meet myself holds evil dreams. If I reach there,

 

I sew my torn skirt from running around in the light, sitting on the mound of darkness. Then, it is fall, in which leaves fall like wills on the way to the hibernating winter. It is the sickroom before the last moment of life. If I reach there,

 

Black butterflies hatch out of the western sky, the burial of the homeless. People try to confess before it’s too late, after changing into their pajama-like shrouds. People are going to be legends. When they reach there, the sky blushes with shame.