Under the blue light of the black palace
a low rumor goes round
Glass sky, electric moonlight
my breath opens an old road
Every record is locked in light
one book of poems survives by mouth
A kingdom's night inside cold servers
no one knows the poet
That one sentence I heard as a child
I remember a day no one had read
The last poet, without a name
poems left on one book of hanji
A forgotten room, a sealed drawer
a rumor older than dust
If I find the vanished songs
even a season that never was breathes again
I am looking for the hanji
following a time that never was
to the place the code could not reach
for a memory never written
Following nameless handwriting
waking a memory that never was
holding a dream that is not a lie
I call a season that never was
Blue alleys, hanok of iron
the eye of a surveillance drone in the silence
My footsteps make no sound
passing between forbidden verses
Rare paper, in every hidden grain
traces of a song written by hand
A spring I never lived, an unfamiliar wind
a scene not mine, and yet I miss it
Backed-up dreams, duplicated history
certified memory, fixed laws
A scene not found in the sea of data
not mine, so why do I miss it
Hanji is alive, it remembers breath
even the trembling and hesitation of the hand
The sentence of a poet without a name
a road that goes on outside my memory
Sealed night, trembling hands
the low breathing of a darkened palace
The moment I followed the last rumor
a dawn I never lived came down
I am looking for the hanji
following a time that never was
to the place the code could not reach
for a memory never written
Following nameless handwriting
waking a memory that never was
holding a dream that is not a lie
I call a season that never was
The typed world does not know
the warmth of a breath left by hand
That scene I never lived
one line of poetry leads me on
Now I think I understand a little
why I am searching for this song
Memory is not a file
imagination is not an error
I am looking for the hanji
embracing days that never were
crossing the wall of silence
calling scenes that never were
Following nameless handwriting
waking an unfamiliar season
what even the code could not steal
opening memories that never were
Blue dawn, the grain of the paper
the poem left behind becomes light
One book of hanji, one line of song
a season that never was spreads again