나의 시

1
On a night when the biting north wind howls like a wounded beast,
On a lonely street in a city where lightning tears the earth,
A weary, starving pilgrim, poor and forlorn,
Waits for a cold death beside the willow tree.

The ornate abbot and the majestic lord pass by,
The pilgrim stretches out a desperate hand for aid,
But they turn away, cold, lest their silk robes be soiled,
Their heartless strides extinguishing even the spark of hope.

At last, a humble priest draws near,
Gently offering a worn coat and warm bread,
In eyes that mirror the morning star,
Flows a compassion deeper and warmer than any in the world.

O, behold! True mercy blooms only in the lowliest places,
Behind the high walls of power, there is no glowing heart.
O, you whose withered souls hide beneath splendid silks,
Only the soul of the giver shall reach the heavens’ height.

2
Today, literary circles sprout like weeds, forming a vast forest,
The noble gates open only to those who pay the golden entry fee,
O, noble poets who have purchased your worth with expensive type,
Is it not truly dazzling, the verse you have forged with gold?

Adorned with noble nameplates, seated in lofty thrones,
Looking down upon the world with authority lighter than vanity,
The blind readers, intoxicated by those glittering plaques,
Unanimously send forth endless applause.

O, nameless poet, do not be sorrowful,
For those noble words are but taxidermy without warmth,
Where the true pulse of life and blood flows,
Is only on the humble, empty scrap of paper in a back alley.

O, eyes of readers who chase only the gilded nameplates,
You shall never be able to read the agony of the nameless poet,
Ah, what a funny yet cruel world this is,
Where only the poems with price tags are chosen in this strange landscape.

Every true word is marked with a vivid price tag,
And the unsold soul fades away by the willow tree,
Ah, when will a true eye recognize the poet,
And when will the true reader awaken to perceive the essence of literature?

Will that day ever come, will it indeed?

Time for solitude.
As the years pass, I find myself savoring the time for contemplation.
In this space of silence, untouched by others,
I drift into the gentle flow of my own breath,
Deep into the embrace of refined imagination.

Following the quiet texture of slow-moving time,
I drift into clear meditation, breathing in the scent of incense.
With poetry, my one and only friend, by my side,
I open my heart and share a tender dialogue.

The exhilaration of soaring, the suppressed emotions,
The weight of a destiny that refuses to yield—
I pour out all my grievances to the innocent muse of poetry,
And, bit by bit, peace finds its way back into my soul.

When will I finally find the work I long to do?
When will I know the comfort of ease and abundance?
When might I travel freely to the places I have dreamed of?
Over and over, I ask, "When, oh when will it be?"

Is this how my life is destined to fade away?
Is this how fate will forever pass me by?
Are there truly no kindred spirits meant for me?
A sigh, heavy as a mountain, chokes my weary heart.

I seek no recognition or reverence from the world,
Nor do I crave the hollow shine of honor.
Yet, why is even the smallest, simplest dream
So agonizingly out of reach for me?

Lost on an uncharted sea without a guiding star,
When the burning anxiety becomes too much to bear,
It is poetry that unfurls the wings of my imagination,
Granting me the strength to endure another day.

Time for solitude.
In the clarity of meditation, I breathe in the sacred scent.
Oh, my grateful companion;
My dear friend who has offered me solace,
In your presence, I find peace once more.

What are light? Dust and word;
What are long? A train and a promise;
What are strong? Weapon and love;
What are high? Mountain and honor.

Unknowing, I have reached fifty-five
How swiftly the tides of time fly by
Standing again at the threshold of toil
Was searching for work always this cold a soil

Grief weighs heavy on the years I have grown
Where can I go with my major alone
What use are the licenses held in my hand
Looking back, all is vanity in the sand

Tantalizing, agonizing, teasing the heart
The promise of destiny is worlds apart
I only cling to the innocent, passing day
Though getting a job won’t wash all cares away

Before the gate, the hell of the chase
After the gate, the prison of fit and place
Past the age to watch for another’s sign
How much longer must I hold my breath in line

Unknowing, I have reached fifty-five
A day so hard to find a place to thrive
Promising myself a decade from tonight
Ah, let it be, let it all take flight

Like the fragrant spring breeze blowing from the south,
The departed poets planted
warm consolation and encouragement.

Like the bitter winter wind raging from the north,
The departed poets sternly rebuked
the cold reality and society.

Their poems are
Like a mournful melody carried upon the wind,
Like a shy and fluttering love infused in silk,
Like a faint yet yearning resonance steeped in every sound,
Like the cozy hope blossoming within a bonfire.
Every time I recite line by line, a deep, trembling emotion arises.

O, soul of the departed poet,
Come unto me.
Pray, pass down to me the graceful poetic words you whispered,
That I may become a fragile lamp in this desolate era.

O, soul of the departed poet,
Come unto me.
Pray, bestow upon me the essence of the echoes you sang,
That I may bring great courage to those dwelling in the shadows of this era.

O, soul of the departed poet,
Come unto me.
Grant me, I pray, the power of a sentence
That may sway, but shall never break.

I gaze into the dazzling screen as if into an abyss,
Lost in a trance for a long while now.
A march of black symbols across a white void ―
Tying the knots of an hour, a year, and finally a lifetime,
Why must I confront this frigid language?

A machine, by nature, is a pure body that knows no lie.
Has the world changed, or have I simply stood still?
Into the clear veins of code that should remain honest,
Disordered crowds plant the venom of corrupt desire,
Debasing even the machine’s integrity into a mere tool.

A swamp of numbers and false illusions spun by charts,
A snare to trap the lives of others beyond the monitor.
At the frayed edge of a cold program’s calculation,
Human warmth is erased, leaving only greed behind ―
For whom do they build so fiercely, so relentlessly?

When the fruits of brilliant minds and masterful skills
Become weapons that wrack the tears of others,
Does an anchor of conscience exist within their logic circuits?
Designing dark desires without a single speck of guilt,
No scent of humanity lingers in the language they speak.

Riding the waves of time, technology climbs toward its zenith,
While everyone clamors to grasp the crest of the tide.
In this era of distrust, where even honest programs are doubted,
I wonder if a desolate desert is looming before us ―
My anguish sinks heavier than the deepening night.

Even before the screen where falsehood overflows,
I still stand, facing the monitor once again.
For the sake of that final line that performs only the truth,
As if embroidering a pure poem, line by precious line,
I seek to leave my own warm breath within the code.

Where is the end of science and technology?
From the screeching of slow modems to the beams of fiber optics,
We bound the entire world in a dense, woven web.
Knitting this once-silent planet into a single network,
We finally tore down the fortress walls of time and space.

At the end of that brilliant connection, social media bloomed.
With a single fingertip, we draw up news from a thousand miles away;
The laughter of family and friends flows in real-time.
Gathering in the public square, each raising a voice of the era,
The world, at last, seemed to become a grand plaza.

Yet, the swamp of overflowing information erases the path.
When truth and lies intermingle, returning as a poisoned chalice,
An anonymous dagger, hidden behind a mask, aims for the heart.
Private lives, leaked and stripped bare in the marketplace ―
A cruel bondage began, under the name of “connection.”

Where is the end of science and technology?
Binding the world as one, we made neighbors across ten thousand miles.
Our lives should be more abundant, more dazzling than this.
Then why has the seat of affection dried up, and trust vanished?
Like poverty amidst plenty, why must we be so desperately lonely?

The colorful noise within the screen shows no sign of fading,
And the shadow of crime outpaces the speed of light.
The things we have let slip away under the name of progress ―
Perhaps I long for those rugged days when technology could not reach,
When the warmth of a person was the only signal we knew.

Where is the end of science and technology?
Today, upon the boundless sea of the infinite network.
With the sail of a question raised toward no certain shore,
I continue my solitary voyage, seeking the lost frequency of the heart.

The arcade of my youth was a secret universe
A space of dreams outside the mundane world
Behind the lie of heading to the library
Beep-beep, a sanctuary where even time was forgotten
A boy earning his mother’s scolding with joy.

Computer science, woven into me like fate
Within the order of binary, of zeros and ones
Holding C/C++, Java, and ASP.NET close
Staying awake through nights of ten thousand lines
Machines, unlike humans, knew no lie.

As years pass, machines lust for intelligence
While I drift into the aesthetics of slowness
Before age fetters the strength of my fingertips
What trace of mine will remain upon this world?

Life is never easy, never granting its side
Yet my will shall never be broken
To greet whatever waits at the road’s end
Today, I code the final line of my life.

At seven, on the corner of the village alley,
In a game of leapfrog ― Malttuk-bakgi ―
Fighting fiercely over a game of rock-paper-scissors
Just to avoid becoming the human post.
That afternoon, children’s dreams scattered above the sunset.

The friend who longed to be an athlete,
The one who dreamed of being a teacher, and all the others ―
In their midst, what did I hold in my heart?
A nostalgic question still lingers in my ear.

The world of zeros and ones, built so firmly,
Shook helplessly at the threshold of forty.
As the fortress I built alone crumbled like sand,
I soothed myself: I must survive, I must endure.

Eight years of wandering paths far from my calling,
I stayed in the Forest of Poetry, letting sentences bud,
But before the wall of reality and the deep worry of family,
The livelihood of a poor poet remains truly bleak.

On a strange stage, standing for the sake of survival,
Filled with puppets who have lost their true selves,
Within the cycle of heartless capital and damned money,
We live with our souls held in mortgage.

The child who once ran away, hating to be the post,
Now stands supporting the heavy post of life.
Asking once more what I wanted to be in those days,
I only let out a sigh at the end of these hollow thoughts.

1
Life is a journey of achievement, walking toward desire,
A day running with a hunger that can never be sated.
Life is taming the inner cries behind a mask,
A day of sobbing alone, enduring in silence.
Life is standing in the heart of bone-deep pain,
A day lived with composure, showing no sign of sorrow.

“To empty everything should be enough, yet why is letting go so heavy?
But live I must. Somehow, I shall live on.”

2
Death is a hollow space of silence,
A profound sleep from which one never wakes.
Death is a state of nothingness at the edge of blurred vision,
Where one forgets even the very self.
Death is a parting where consciousness sublimes into soul, like a flickering candle going out,
Shedding the worn-out rags of this weary world.

“When I die, deliver me swiftly from this tattered flesh.
So that my soul ― like a bird soaring high, like a cloud drifting free ―
May wander at will, beyond the shackles of this life.”

Walking along the trail again today,
A familiar scent brings me to a halt.
Wondering where I have smelled this before,
I see white blossoms hanging in clusters between the green leaves.

As a gentle breeze blows for a moment,
The white clusters sway all at once.
As if welcoming me,
They enchant me with their deep fragrance.

In my childhood, I used to pick and eat those white flowers.
Is it because of the weight of my now-futile age?
The flowers are no longer as sweet as they were then.
Oh, those days when we struggled to pick more than one another……

What are those friends doing now?
I miss them, those dear faces.
Everyone is doing well,
I softly send my regards through the scent of the flowers.

Resuming my walk once more,
Through the dazzling white blossoms,
I let the old nostalgia drift away on the wind
And simply smile, ever so quietly.

Where is this place?
Lying still within a casket, I see the faces I once knew.

What is this piercing chill?
The sound of wailing¹⁾ sorrow, and the air grown heavy and still.

Sense has faded from my eyes and limbs,
I strive to rise, but find no strength within.

The heavy, somber scent of wood drifts from the coffin;
Oh, my weary body, adorned so humbly with flowers.

The shroud, the binding cloths²⁾, and the white peaked hood³⁾—
Ah, at last, I understand.

A desperate touch before the lid is sealed,
The tear-stained fare for the journey, left by my children’s hands.

Now, nothing more is needed;
A peaceful rest in one’s family gravesite after the cremation.

Though I know not if I shall be laid to rest in safety,
I embrace only the faith of my family, as my soul is called to heaven⁴⁾.

I once longed to be a poet,
But now, it matters not if you call me one.
Even without a grand debut,
Dozens of my poems are already here, breathing on their own.

As I pour my heart’s thoughts, line by line, into poetic direction,
As I shape my infinite emotions, row by row, into verse,
That fleeting moment of bliss is the poetic immortal¹⁾ awakening my soul.

A poet is no one of grand distinction.
It is simply the act itself:
Pouring out passion and soul with paper and pen,
Writing with a heart that remains unfailingly true.

Unbound by the frames the world has set,
Singing only in a language that is mine alone,
I am a humble and imposing poet.

I once longed to be a poet,
Yet now, you need not call me one.
If, perchance, someone finds a profound echo within my poetry,
Would that not be a legacy finer than Shakespeare’s poetry?

Like a child within the text,
Reviving a purity
Untouched by the stains of the world;

Like a creator of words,
Breathing the spark of a soul
Into even the most trivial things;

Like a superpower in writing,
Freely sketching out
The senses and images of a fleeting moment;

Like a writer’s imagination
Describing the unknown worlds beyond reach—
The Heaven and Hell envisioned by Dante;

Like a wizard of writing
Giving perfect from to love and parting,
Joy and sorrow, and the deep yearning of the people;

Like a sage of writing,
Reaching beyond sensory description
To unfold the inner abyss¹⁾ into infinite poetic thought;

Like an artist of writing,
Unfazed by the critiques of others,
Building a universe entirely one’s own;

Everyone
Longs to be a poet such as this,
But in truth, there is no great secret.

If you are writing a poem right now,
Then you
Are already a poet.

Waiting
To a lover, a heartbeat’s flutter.

Waiting
To a student, a searing ache.

The same act of waiting,
Yet the breath held within carries a different weight.

Every moment,
I cross the river called “Waiting,”
But until my feet touch the distant shore ―

For someone,
It is a golden hour, to be filled with light.

For someone,
It is a suffocating hour, trapped in the dark.

Now, even that long endurance
Has become the weight of life, slowly growing numb.

We,
No matter what the society may be,
Must find the strength to live on once more.

Footsteps struggling not to fall behind ―
As heavy as the beads of sweat from our toil,
Society must offer us an answer in return.

A society that remains silent to honest labor,
How can we ever call such a place
A world of equality?

Because there are those in the lowliest places
Creating the bright light of an equal world,
Hope lives on ― like a plum blossom amidst the bitter snow.

Rather than an overflow¹⁾ of material wealth,
I long for goodness, honesty, and integrity²⁾ to flow like a stream,
Wishing to exist within a warm landscape brimming with heart.

We,
No matter what the society may be,
Must find the strength to live on once more.

A person is born,
A person passes away.

Time arrives,
Time flows on.

Winter fades,
Summer returns.

Flowers bloom,
Flowers wither.

Lovers fall in love,
Lovers part ways.

There is happiness,
There is sorrow.

As the world holds Yin and Yang¹⁾,
All things move in harmony.

And yet ―
Is our society truly sane?

The sun, as dazzling as a red apple;
The moon, as gentle as a silver plate.

As the sun sets, the moon begins to rise,
And as the moon sets, the sun begins to rise.

So the sun will not be lonely,
A titmouse sings its chirping song;

So the moon will not be lonely,
The stars twinkle and dance with playful charm.

The sun and the moon
Can never truly meet.

The sun and the moon remain unchanged by the laws of nature,
Yet our human hearts change all the time.

“My friend,
Shall we not try to be like that sun and moon?”

As the sun sets, the moon begins to rise,
And as the moon sets, the sun begins to rise.

It is Spring,
Yet snow falls from the sky.
A snow so different from the winter’s chill.
Fragrant snow-flowers ― lovely in white and pink.

Another year has slipped away.
As flowers bloom in full¹⁾ and wither in so short a time,
We mortals, once young, grow old and pass away.
In all worldly affairs, there is a season for everything.

In all the years I have lived until now,
How much have I truly accomplished by my own will?
Before I knew it, age has crept upon me ―
Is it perhaps time for me to let go?

There is still work left to be done,
Yet I wonder when I shall ever bring it to a close.
With empty pockets,
I only watch as the river of time flows by.

On such a dazzling spring day,
From the sky,
The fragrant snow-flowers ― lovely in white and pink ― descend,
Yet with a single sigh, the towering fortress²⁾ of my heart crumbles.

With every heavy, labored step,
Tap, tap, tap
The familiar, rhythmic sound of a stick

The footsteps of a father,
Who taught the true meaning of the aesthetics of slowness.
A son, grumbling that the pace is too slow,
Takes hold of his father’s small, rough hand and pulls him along.

The father, having reached the venerable age of a hundred¹⁾, says:
“Oh, it’s killing me! I can’t move another inch.
Stop pulling my hand, let’s just sit a while before we go.”
The son, feeling restless, replies:
“Father, It’s just a few more steps. Just a little further……”

But the father has already sunk down onto a bench.
His two hands lean upon his stick,
Head bowed, catching his ragged breath.
“When I can’t even move my own body as I wish, living long is no blessing.
I should leave this world soon.”

How much longer can I touch my father’s hand?
Softly,
My eyes begin to burn with tears.

With every heavy, labored step,
Tap, tap, tap
The familiar, rhythmic sound of a stick

Placing a single handful of fine ash into the urn,
We head toward the final resting place.

The life shared with the departed
Flashes through my mind in an instant,
As tears flow without ceasing.

The ancestral burial ground
Where our forefathers lie
Only now do we return to meet them.

The laborer digs into the mountain earth,
Shovelful by shovelful,
It is time to enter eternal rest.

Gently placing the urn into the grave,
We cover it with earth, shovelful by shovelful,
And burn the clothes and shoes of the departed soul²⁾.

The family prays:
“Please, cast off the burdens of this life
And enjoy a free and peaceful existence in the world beyond.”

The family sobs,
While the light from heaven shines upon the grave,
And the ancestors welcome the departed home.

One hour and thirty minutes in the furnace.
Then, the crushed bones ― beige and ashen gray ― become a single handful of fine ash.
The family sobs, gazing at those remains.

For what purpose did they live?
For what did they chase nothing but success and ambition?
For what did they strive only for a happy life?

This single handful of fine ash.
A life of emptiness²⁾.
The transience of life³⁾.

As the years pass,
Even the presence of the departed
Will fade into the mist of memory.

Is this, perhaps, what life truly is?

With the casket of the deceased loaded into the hearse¹⁾,
We set out on the road to the crematorium.

Inside the hearse, the chief mourner bows his head like a sinner,
As a funeral procession follows silently behind.

Once it enters the furnace,
Never again shall the physical body²⁾ of the deceased be seen.

Does the soul of the departed know where it is drifting?
Even the soul itself is powerless to stop this.

The hour has come to part with the physical body;
The family can do nothing but shed endless tears.

On the road to the crematorium,
One can only hope that the soul of the departed
Wishes never to reach that final destination.

We live in step with rapid change,
Yet sometimes, I want to escape this life
And return to an era before I was born.

In the past, bound by blood and the land,
Grandparents, parents, sons, and daughters lived as one,
Sharing in joy, anger, sorrow, and delight.
But through industrialization and urban sprawl,
Families have splintered into nuclear homes or solitary lives.

One day, as a grandfather’s deathbed drew near,
Because the family lived apart,
The child could not witness his passing.
What must that death have been like?

To survive amidst capitalism and fierce competition,
The child has long since forgotten the luxury of a moment’s peace;
Yet, the grandfather’s death does not wait for the child.
Arriving too late, the child only weeps before the body.

A sudden thought strikes the child:
One day, when I face my own end,
If my child cannot witness my passing ― just like Grandfather ―
Will my death be as peaceful as sleep?

To survive amidst capitalism and fierce competition,
We live in step with rapid change;
Yet sometimes, I want to escape this life
And return to an era before I was born.

By what connection have we gathered in this classroom?
Each of us, brought here by stories unspoken.

Though the lesson is strange and unfamiliar, and a shadow of fear might linger,
The eyes of every student shine with a clear and focused light.

Even if it is but a mannequin and not a true body,
The atmosphere could not be more solemn as we perform the shrouding¹⁾ with all our hearts.

With small, delicate hands, after the initial cleansing,
We wrap the form in layers of Hanji, crafting paper garments sheet by sheet;
How beautiful it is, beyond words, to see the shroud²⁾ being draped.

After dressing the form with those same delicate hands,
As seven hempen ties³⁾ are bound and knotted, a bead of sweat falls silently from your brow;
I wonder, could that droplet perhaps be a hidden tear?

When the minor binding ends and the major binding begins,
The mannequin is wrapped once more in hemp, knotted, and placed within the casket.
We cover it with the celestial quilt⁴⁾, close the lid⁵⁾, and finish with the wooden pins⁶⁾.

If a person’s body, not a mannequin, were prepared with such devotion,
The journey to the afterlife would surely not be a lonely one.
Seeing our sincerity, how could the departed remain unmoved?

Each of us, brought here by stories unspoken,
Truly prays for the peaceful rest of the departed.

On the day you were born, at the edge of the pitch-black evening sky,
A newborn star ― a single star ― shone with a brilliant twinkle.

In the prime of your life,
Your star, more radiant than any other, was a rising star.

In the autumn of your years,
Your star, less radiant than the rest, is a setting star.

The setting star, longing for what passed,
Pours all its strength into becoming a rising star once more.

Even if you give your absolute all and still do not rise again,
My dear, please do not be discouraged.

For even now,
Your star ― the setting star ― still hangs there in the night sky,
Shining with its own steady twinkle……

On the day you passed, at the edge of the pitch-black evening sky,
An ancient star ― a single star ― silently fell like a meteor and vanished.

In a quiet room, Mother lies upon her bed;
The years she has spent battling illness can no longer be counted.

When Mother opens her heavy eyes in the morning, is it a day of hope?
Or is it just another day in an endless, unchanging routine?
Mother has long since forgotten even such thoughts.
The touch of her worn, weathered years
Turns as dull and fading as the objects around her.

Now, Mother has no strength left even to move.
Yet, her children, watching over her, long to be with her
For just a few more minutes, or even a few more seconds,
Praying to God, and to God again, at every passing moment.

At the end, Mother’s eyes seemed to speak to her children:
‘My dear ones, thank you. It is enough now; let me go in peace.
I, too, wish to return to nature ― to the rocks, the stones, the flowers, and the trees.’

At last, God, in His mercy, relieved Mother of her pain,
And she set out on a journey to a place from which one never returns.

In the room that had become a sea of tears, Mother met a death of supreme happiness.
She met a blessed death.

The dancing wind
The dancing clouds
The dancing stars of the Milky Way
The dancing moon
The world is like a grand ballroom.
I leap into the air and join the dance, too.

At a feeling of longing for a late winter night, a late winter night
The snow is piling up on the ground without a sound
Even the streetlight glows to brighten the fallen snow
I’m piling up thoughts of childhood friendship, my childhood friendship

The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up at the foot of the mountain.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on the lonely trail.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up by the flowing stream.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on the old thatched roof.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on the roof of the bus stop.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on the tree-lined street.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on my weary body.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on my long sighs.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on the wrinkles of my forehead.
The fallen leaves of late autumn pile up on my age.

In a corner of a room where the neat scent of incense and silence flow,
I, who have pondered the meaning of time all day long,
Am thinking.

I try to erase the words
“Next time” and “Later” from my mind.

I, who have already passed the age of fifty
I reach into the bundle of memories and feel through the traces of my life.

If I wish to remember, it becomes a basket of happiness.
If I wish to forget, it becomes a basket of sorrow.

In a hospital, a terminally ill patient,
Watching a meteor fall silently beyond the window in the late night sky,
Transparent beads sob and fall from your eyes.
What is so sorrowful and filled with regret in your life?

In a corner of a room where the neat scent of incense and silence flow,
I, who have pondered the meaning of time all day long

Erase the words
“Next time” and “Later” from my mind.
With courage, I try to kindle the flame of hope right now.

A bond met halfway through my life,
I believed you were my only supporter.
I believed that my weary life, like a tangled ball of thread,
Was finally, finally beginning to unravel smoothly.

What is truth, after all?
I spoke only the truth.
But every lie you told swept away my faith,
Like a gentle ripple on a lake turning into a great wave.

The end of a lie, told to escape the moment,
Is destined to reveal its bare face one day.
Like water, tasteless and transparent,
If only you had been as clear - how would it have been?

With that common saying, “Time heals all wounds,”
Can I truly forget you?
Why must our connection end
In the final act of a tragedy?

Multiple times a day, I hate you.
You, who left a deep brand upon my heart,
Why did you set foot
Into the quiet garden of my life?

A bond met halfway through my life,
I believed you were my only supporter.
I believed that my weary life, like a tangled ball of thread,
Was finally, finally beginning to unravel smoothly.

Now, never again
Will I harbor such vain hope.

Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I remember him!

Heart, It hurts so much!
You and I ― can we ever overcome this pain of impact? ―
I loathe everything now,
And I can’t believe in anything anymore!

I hold no grudge or ill will against you,
But why? Why? Why?
I can never offer you forgiveness or mercy.
If only I could shake off this freezing rage and suppressed sorrow like mere dust……

Today, we meet a stranger;
We meet a stranger.
Though we cannot promise when the bond between my soul and theirs will end,
Still, we meet a stranger.

A stranger and a stranger,
This strange encounter
Feels like a small festival in life, awaited with a fluttering heart.

A stranger,
If the love and faith between you and me
Are truly sincere, we may walk together for a lifetime.
But if they are not,
Even if I must endure pain and despair, I will forget you without regret ― without any regret.

Today, we part with a stranger;
We bid farewell to a stranger.
Though we cannot promise when the bond between my soul and theirs will end,
Still, we part with a stranger.

In the world of human affairs,
There are connections and ill-fated relationships.

At the first meeting between two people:
If the heart feels sincere, likable, and at ease, it is a connection;
If the heart feels anxious, stifled, and brings harm, it is an ill-fated relationship.

Is it ever truly easy to form a connection?
“One can measure the depths of ten feet of water, but not the single foot of a person’s heart.”
Since human hearts change so often, those who can be trusted are rare in this world.

If forming a connection is so difficult,
If an ill-fated relationship could transform into a precious connection,
And if we could remain in a good relationship forever,
Nothing could be better.

In the world of human affairs,
There are connections and ill-fated relationships.

Now, between these connections and ill-fated relationships,
I am still wandering, lost in their midst.

In the nursery and the funeral hall, cries announce the beginning and the end of a new life;
We stand upon the continuity of life and death.

Life is a sequence of love, joy, and sorrow,
Yet death lets us cast off this earthly weight to embrace a boundless freedom.

We experience life, yet death remains beyond our reach;
Knowing it shall come one day, we live our hours with such serene composure.

What if we were bound to an eternal life?
― Just as every beginning holds an end ― perhaps death is the ultimate blessing.

Today, we take one step closer to death.
On the day we finally meet it, how grand it would be to embrace a passing without pain.

Ahoy, ahoy, do not weep.
To that place of rest and liberty, I shall go first ― awaiting the day you arrive.

Praying that we may meet again in that distant realm, as you have.
One day, I shall embark on that long journey to the edge of heaven ― O Angel!, O Demon! ―
We shall follow by your side, too.