The eyes of that woman
who for half a day of flower-rain
trod on falling petals,
petals covering the ground.
The eyes of that pregnant woman.

Some three years later,

the eyes of that newborn baby,
eyes that do not know
a swallow is a swallow.

The eyes of a young man shining at night
before the light was turned off,
eyes of a revolution
doomed to fail.

The eyes of an old man
looking back at his home
one last time
as he heads for hospital
or nursing home,
the home he once left
and couldn’t go back to
on the banks of the Cheongcheon River

in North Korea,
the eyes of that old man where the source of tears has dried up.