In house of prose and verse,
In a fluttered, paper rain,
Did my core itself be covered,
In a rose-pink, quill-writ hurricane.
Kiss the clock,
And count the seconds spent away,
But does not arrive a second train,
As the first train leaves its bay?
And were time and lonely space,
Cold knives to splice in two,
Our helixed, entwined souls,
Is Seoul our Urban Glue?