MORNING The midnight air ruins my lungs. Soot settles in. I make a fuss about my pain all night. Night comes and goes endlessly. Day breaks, when I can no longer remember what has been happening. Like a lamp inside my lungs, morning is turned on. I look around to see if anything has disappeared overnight. My habit has returned. I have ripped out many pages from my shamefully extravagant book. The early light carefully writes itself on my book’s exhausted conclusion. As if the noseless night will never return. February 1936
Yi Sang: Selected Works (translated by Jack Jung)










