MIRROR 2
The day the Soviet Union collapsed I, I
was spreading out the sports page in the Kwangju Airport.
Has my chance to betray this life in totality
just up and disappeared? At first, there was absolutely
no way to accept the fact that I had turned 40.
It's because this is one " fucked-up century. "
Of course, if you tell me to go live in Pyongyang, I can't do it.
So why is my pain any worse than theirs?
I wanted to travel up across the Kaema Plateau. I can't just head straight off for Okinawa.
I should've been born in the 19th century, you realize then I wouldn't have known a future like this?
Yeltzin's out of sorts, just like that disagreeable bastard I hate.
That fucked-up bastard, this fucked-up century: so why
is my pain worse than theirs?
No worries. Roh Tae Woo doesn't make appearances in my dreams;
should we say it's better to be the cruel than the cunning?
Funny, isn't it. I'm pretty well-off for being unemployed.
Has the buoyant flotsam of corruption been floating me too?
The shadow of a cloud walks the ridgetops of the Kaema Plateau, and when it just passes the region of royal azaleas
all I wanted was to see that dazzling sight — just once.
Last spring, I went to the hospital — don't laugh — and I was happy the instant I learned the name of my disease.
A butterfly flut flut flutters up from the pages of the book I open,
it flies up, an ink butterfly soaked in ill will:
Okinawa would be an island floating on the wind.
A dream where noodles are hanging down out of my nose; then I woke up,
isn't the door slightly ajar and the light's been left on?
Has someone been here? (Someone has been here!)
It was 2 A.M. and I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, then slammed it shut.
'Cause inside there's a single left shoe with the heel-cap smashed down.
And a travel commercial comes to mind — Palm fronds like fine hair
waving, almost as if they'd fall over, on an island that combs the wind;
nowadays I lose my hair in sudden handfuls,
so how, after coming all this way from the 19th century,
could I know my mental age, detour after detour?
This fire-scorched cut-back of my skull.
A fuse-blown idea; anyhow I, I
have passed the stainless steel chef's knife atop the butcher's block, both eyes shut tight.
Sometimes I'm afraid of myself! How can I believe myself?
I can understand the thunder and lightning crashing inside the head
of that guy who grabs onto the iron bars shouting " I Am Jesus " ;
I hate the coming of morning every day, sunlight is tedious.
While I, I don't do anything all day long
all the while every every day seems very very urgent.
I'm late to the airport again: " Uh, is there a 12 o'clock KAL flight to Seoul? "
Where's a life that's as urgent as that of the crazy bastards?
At the newsstand where there's a " No Soliciting " sign posted
" Yeltzin's gonna get ousted, " my mind is always clouded
as if it were filled with some gas. I stood there in front of the bathroom mirror
pointing a finger up against my temple and pretended to pull the trigger.
Funny, huh? After that, I muttered to myself " Fucked-up century. "
" BANG! " my finger pulls the trigger inside my head, " Hey, you fucked-up bastard! "
I screamed, of course it only comes from the mouth in the mirror.
And I thought, some lunatics are sages.
Now even when I think I've met all the people I need to meet
why do good women keep appearing? This is the kind of question
I have sometimes when I fly.
Homesickness is better than living in your hometown.
Byelo-Russia? The Kaema Plateau? Okinawa? The Kansas River?
There are names in my address book I've crossed out
so many times I can't recognize them.
Being made of non-existent material: that's my nothing-special strength.
I don't need to be told to forgive.
I don't need to be forgiven.
The day the Soviet Union collapsed I, I
was spreading out the sports page in the Kwangju Airport.
Has my chance to betray this life in totality
just up and disappeared? At first, there was absolutely
no way to accept the fact that I had turned 40.
It's because this is one " fucked-up century. "
Of course, if you tell me to go live in Pyongyang, I can't do it.
So why is my pain any worse than theirs?
I wanted to travel up across the Kaema Plateau. I can't just head straight off for Okinawa.
I should've been born in the 19th century, you realize then I wouldn't have known a future like this?
Yeltzin's out of sorts, just like that disagreeable bastard I hate.
That fucked-up bastard, this fucked-up century: so why
is my pain worse than theirs?
No worries. Roh Tae Woo doesn't make appearances in my dreams;
should we say it's better to be the cruel than the cunning?
Funny, isn't it. I'm pretty well-off for being unemployed.
Has the buoyant flotsam of corruption been floating me too?
The shadow of a cloud walks the ridgetops of the Kaema Plateau, and when it just passes the region of royal azaleas
all I wanted was to see that dazzling sight — just once.
Last spring, I went to the hospital — don't laugh — and I was happy the instant I learned the name of my disease.
A butterfly flut flut flutters up from the pages of the book I open,
it flies up, an ink butterfly soaked in ill will:
Okinawa would be an island floating on the wind.
A dream where noodles are hanging down out of my nose; then I woke up,
isn't the door slightly ajar and the light's been left on?
Has someone been here? (Someone has been here!)
It was 2 A.M. and I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, then slammed it shut.
'Cause inside there's a single left shoe with the heel-cap smashed down.
And a travel commercial comes to mind — Palm fronds like fine hair
waving, almost as if they'd fall over, on an island that combs the wind;
nowadays I lose my hair in sudden handfuls,
so how, after coming all this way from the 19th century,
could I know my mental age, detour after detour?
This fire-scorched cut-back of my skull.
A fuse-blown idea; anyhow I, I
have passed the stainless steel chef's knife atop the butcher's block, both eyes shut tight.
Sometimes I'm afraid of myself! How can I believe myself?
I can understand the thunder and lightning crashing inside the head
of that guy who grabs onto the iron bars shouting " I Am Jesus " ;
I hate the coming of morning every day, sunlight is tedious.
While I, I don't do anything all day long
all the while every every day seems very very urgent.
I'm late to the airport again: " Uh, is there a 12 o'clock KAL flight to Seoul? "
Where's a life that's as urgent as that of the crazy bastards?
At the newsstand where there's a " No Soliciting " sign posted
" Yeltzin's gonna get ousted, " my mind is always clouded
as if it were filled with some gas. I stood there in front of the bathroom mirror
pointing a finger up against my temple and pretended to pull the trigger.
Funny, huh? After that, I muttered to myself " Fucked-up century. "
" BANG! " my finger pulls the trigger inside my head, " Hey, you fucked-up bastard! "
I screamed, of course it only comes from the mouth in the mirror.
And I thought, some lunatics are sages.
Now even when I think I've met all the people I need to meet
why do good women keep appearing? This is the kind of question
I have sometimes when I fly.
Homesickness is better than living in your hometown.
Byelo-Russia? The Kaema Plateau? Okinawa? The Kansas River?
There are names in my address book I've crossed out
so many times I can't recognize them.
Being made of non-existent material: that's my nothing-special strength.
I don't need to be told to forgive.
I don't need to be forgiven.