The Night I Count the Stars

Nadia Park

In the sky where seasons pass,
autumn fills the air.

Without any hesitation, 
I will count the stars deep in autumn.

All the stars engraved in my chest,
I cannot count them all
because morning comes too soon,
because tomorrow’s evening still remains,
because my youth is still incomplete.

One star for memory
One star for love
One star for loneliness
One star for longing
One star for poem
One star for mother, mother.
 
Mother, I attempt to call out to each star its beautiful name.
Names of the children I shared a desk with in primary school, names of foreign girls such as Pae, Kyung, Ok, names of girls who have already become mothers, names of penniless neighbors, names of animals like pigeon, dog, rabbit, mule, deer, and names of poets such as Francis Jammes, Rainer Maria Rilke, 
I attempt to call them.

They are too far
in the way stars are infinitely distant.

And Mother,
you are far off in North Kando.

I grieve for some unknown
on top the hill where a fountain of starlights falls.
I write my name
and cover it up with soil.

And the cicadas cry through the night
over my shameful name.

But when winter passes and spring arrives, even to my star,
in the way green grass blooms on graves,
on top of the hill where my name is buried,
like pride, grass will lusciously overflow.