Written October 30, 2018 in the middle of the night.
Late October snaked its way along the city,
With bright buildings reflecting against the Han River,
Flowing through green, red and purple leaves cold and bright.
The air bites but in the village frozen in time, nestled
In between countless cars, offices, blue and yellow neon lights,
A Sunday lost in a city of the future, is where
Bukchon Hanok Village sleeps, trapped back to when the air smelled of wood smoke.
Grey clouds looked across the stone mountains casting pink shadows of trees,
Changing wear for colder days.
The clouds are silent.
It is quiet here; not like there —
Where an unknown path leads us down uncertain times,
Surrounded by changes, moving quickly,
Speeding down the highway lanes like a robber,
Stealing days and drifting away like gone memories of summer.
