Once past the sixth block
of Ulchiro, downtown,
come the smells of my country home.

Crossing the muddy yard
of the bus station, into the chill
of the stoveless waiting room,
an old man, ice
dangling from his moustache —
a neighbor, from Sinni Village.
Worried about the rice stacks
still ungathered in his fields,
he curses this cold
and the windy snow.
" Oh, is that all you have
for complaints? " some woman
sighs.
" Is that all
you have for troubles? " adds the mistress
of the wine shop at the crossing.
The waiting room turns colder
as it grows more disordered.
These people from home
are somehow too much for me.
Shall I just leave my seat,
quietly, and take the bus
back to Ulchiro, downtown?
Returned to the sixth block, I grow
all the more cowardly.