Mu 무
Jan 21, 2023
A potato to foreigners,
Hope to my ancestors.
Farmed by peasants,
Devoured by kingdoms.
Delicate and hard yet,
Seasoned with love.
Days of sorrow gone
From a simmering broth.
Halmeoni fills my bowl,
Not once but thrice.
In distant kitchens,
Daikon stinks of Han.
Still, a humble root,
Growing in my blood.
