Same sentence, different fingertips
same song, different ink
if these are one person's traces
why is all the handwriting different
Folded paper between old ledgers
a different time at every corner
one line trembles, one line is straight
different breaths remain in them
It isn't the same poem copied over
each one continues where the last left off
someone wrote down the rain
and the next person added the sea
No signature
no seal
no one left word of who wrote it
and yet the sentence is never cut off
it lives across generations
It didn't vanish for lack of a name
it survived because no name was put on it
Not a song one person guarded
but one that crossed from person to person
The nameless poet
was never one person
It was countless voices
each leaving one line and moving on
Belonging to no one
it passes on to everyone
In the place where a name was set down
only the song survived
Some of the handwriting is very young
some strokes tremble with age
one page is soaked with the smell of incense
on another, rainwater has spread
Not the king's
not the people's
not any one family's song
whoever read it wrote the next sentence
with their own breath, they say
Suddenly I wanted to ask
who wrote the very first line
but no one answers
they say the beginning isn't what matters
No creator, no owner
no registration number, no lineage
receive one line, give one line
leave a season instead of a name
Who is the original and who is the copy
when the hand changes, the heart changes too
there never was a finished version
the moment you read, the next page opened
The poet I was looking for didn't exist
instead there were far too many people
"nameless" is not an empty name
it is the place where a name was laid down
One line
one person
Another line
another person
A single book of seasons
that never ends
The nameless poet
was never one person
It was countless voices
each leaving one line and moving on
Belonging to no one
it passes on to everyone
In the place where a name was set down
only the song survived
On the last page there is no writing
only white hanji remains
Beneath it, very small
a single sentence is written
"The next season
is written by whoever reads"
The nameless poet
is not finished even now
the last blank page
quietly waits for me
I don't write yet
I only rest my fingertips on the paper
For the first time I understood
More than the person I was looking for
it is the next line I will write
that frightens me
Same song, new fingertips
the blank hanji breathes