Namu Eurong, erong namu
A tree does not migrate.
It moves outward, under and above,
Or side to side, or twists
Or is pushed by the wake of an element,
But stays rooted often into death.
A tree is not literate, has no need to observe and record
the babble of vibrations marking political borders
and transitory entities.
A tree will tend to its progeny through
networks of mycelium,
but even an ocean impedes such contact.
A tree may cross an ocean, as a seed
in the belly of a bird,
Or as a sapling, or mostly grown, they may be
and carried in the cavity of a ship, to be replanted.
Perhaps seed, perhaps sapling,
to my ancestors, I am a ghost.
My visage haunts hospitals, and not quite forgotten orphan homes,
And modern city streets, on a continent I no longer inhabit,
where memory in my DNA lights up among the population
spark and crackle like a bioluminescent sea of far distant relations,
me of them, they of me.
Without this language nothing is created, nothing destroyed.
Nature’s silence is the sigh of nothingness.
A seed grown, taken from one soil, planted in another.
Not a tree
Not a ghost
나무 유령, Namu Eurong