H w a n g Y u w o n —

translated by J a k e L e v i n e & S o o h y u n Yang

Night Hang Glider

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

Where does it fly

and for how long?

Is it going to keep on flying away

like an idiot?

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

Not the hang glider of the day

not the wild rabbit of the night

the night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

Above the hill where all the lights have gone dark

propeller turning, flying alone

staring at the rubber propeller, pathetically the hang glider loses direction,

dumbass, idiot, shithead….

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

When I ride on the night hang glider and gaze down at the night hills endlessly unfolding

I entrust my whole body and mind to the blowing wind and

wordlessly, the night hang glider winds with the winds of my whole body and mind.

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

No one can know when this flight started.

It wouldn’t be sad if you knew

and if you knew, this flight wouldn’t have been arranged in the first place.

The night hang glider is winded.

Riding the night hang glider, I feel its windedness, so I pat the night hang glider.

I pity the poor and breathless hang glider as if it is myself, as if

its flight is my flight, and

I accept my grave will be the crashing night hang glider

and I crash with the hang glider of the night.

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

Even if tonight’s flight ends here

you never know what flight tomorrow will unfold.

To unfold.

Unfolding things, no one can know how many things were folded.

The night hang glider that never exists in the day.

Crossing the earth unfolding endless hills, only appearing at night,

the hang glider that tortures me line by line.

Hang glider. Line glider.

Living inside the pronunciation “hang glider,”

a line rider or a line writer

also existing outside the pronunciation “hang glider,”

the hang glider gliding at night.

Crashing hang glider of the night.

Even though you aren’t a bird and

don’t have the bird’s warm heart, you

kind of look like a bird, sticking to the wind,

you dirty hang glider, you

who make me run and you who make me jump, my beloved

hang glider, I love you my hang glider of the night.

You who I find again after my night ends and my day ends, my lovely hang glider I love you, my night hang glider.

You become briefly brave when I climb.

Then you get sad soon after

my infinite night hang glider, my hang glider of the night.

Even though I’m ending the poem

if you take these lines that look perfectly balanced like two wings

and repeat them like a spell

the poem will keep flying even after it ends.

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

The night hang glider is the hang glider of the night.

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