The alleys of the moon village lie slanted.Every roof has a television antenna.As a child I ran through those alleys.At night, children gathered outside the corner shopand shared ramen.Half of them no longer keep in touch.
We lived in the place closest to the sky,on a hill where the moon looked unusually large.But our house was demolished first,and Mother held the soil in her hands and cried.I secretly put that soil in my pocketand poured it into a flowerpot in the new apartment.
Now a tower crane stands there,and the people I knew have scattered.But when the moon rises, I still hearthe voices of children playing in that alley.I press the soil in the pot with my finger,and a black line remains under my nail.I write this letter to that alley:Have you been well, all of us?