Classic Poem

The sky that the seasons pass through
is filled with autumn.
I feel as though I can count, without trouble,
all the stars in the depths of autumn.
The reason I cannot now count
all the stars being etched in my heart
one and two at a time,
is that morning comes too soon;
night still remains until tomorrow,
and my youth is not yet spent.
For one star, a memory;
for one star, love;
for one star, loneliness;
for one star, longing;
for one star, a poem;
for one star, Mother. Mother. Mother, I try calling each star something beautiful: the names of the children I shared a desk with in primary school; the names of the foreign girls, like Pae, Kyung, and Ok; the names of the young women who are already mothers; the names of our poor neighbors, and of the dove, puppy, rabbit, mule, and deer; and the names of poets, like Francis Jammes and Rainer Maria Rilke.

They are all so far away,
like the stars that are infinitely distant.

And Mother,
you are in far northern Manchuria.
Longing for something, I wrote my name
on the hill, where so much starlight has fallen,
and then buried it.

Perhaps the insects drone during the night,
mourning over my shameful name.

But when winter has passed and spring comes even to my star,
to the hill where my name is buried,
the grass, like that growing green over graves
will grow lush and proud.