In the barber’s shop the music is painful on the ears and I sit here as mute audience. I wait for the white shroud.
I can only recall a morning’s darkness. The darkness of a Korean poet. A Korean blanket , warm on body and dark on the eyes.
When I heard about the Korean blanket
A blanket of darkness in the soft mink,
I wanted to see inside of a Korean dark.
The same darkness is on our windows,
In embroidered needle-pricks of light
And light had a heart hid in darkness.
A shroud will now cover my darkness. Tufts of my silver hair shall fall around me like autumn leaves. There are no birds on the bare branches.
The music must go on in the white wall.