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Seoul Searching

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The streets of Seoul never sleep.

The moonlight,
pale and cool,
glimmers over the frenzy below.

Busses glide down the road,
sputtering to a stop every few blocks,
as restless as the people around them.

Tiptoeing onto the balcony,
I peer down twelve stories as a crush of people,
young and old,
stocky and lanky,
restless and exasperated,
fight their way out of the small
mouth of the ground that leads to the subway:
like ants pouring out of an anthill,
each trickles out with his or her own purpose
and destination.

Lights on storefronts shine on the pedestrians,
luring them into their shops.
Multiple aromas tickle my nose:
the stale cigarette smoke from the man next door,
the waft of freshly glazed donuts from the Krispy Kreme down the street,
pastries being baked in the dark of night at the Paris Baguette.

The city night is maimed by the screech of cicadas
gripping onto the windows and trees,
crying and screaming for the
few
fleeting nights before their deaths.

I soundlessly creep back into my bed,
watching the fan in my cousin’s room rotate slowly,
spitting out a breath of cool air
in the sticky humidity that envelopes this summer night.





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