There, wind blows in the late autumn.
I open my eyes before the complete surrender of the grasses, and the onset of sleep of every living thing.
With the hope of blooming again, I push forward every day toward the miracle of being able to live again.
The life has stopped with the start of a new millennium.
The soul of the paused life rubbed its body against the landscape.
Slowly and slowly, the wrinkles, the waves and the patterns of crosscut wood blossom forth toward each other.
A wind whizzed past the tip of the nose.
Would it be the moment? Would it stop? Would it be eternal?
The whizzing wind that cannot escape even in the deep sleep lies down to sleep.
The lying down breath weakens gradually, and nobody knows what would happen when the almost chopped struggling breath is breathed out. Only that the struggling breath cripples and gets together again and again. Only that, one sings for the day when one would stand in the middle of the spring breeze, eternally.
Even to the dying one, moustache grew like the sea grass. One dances to live on the scrawny skin layer. Eyes are blinked constantly like the light of a broken fluorescent tube. One does not know where to meet the eyes. Momentarily, the sight diverged.
When the consciousness of the life made its way back, it provided additional weight to the continuous sadness. The diverged sight provided the lessening of the weight of the sadness. Here, one can spin round and round. Here, one can also cry. Here, one can also smile. At last, one can cast the anchor of the mind.
However, the only desired words to be spoken radiate lights on where the anchor cannot be casted.
And, there, wind blows in the late autumn.
2013. 한진 Han Jin.
