KIM SOWOL

While Following My Late Love I Woke from the Dream and Lamented

The red sun hung above a western mountain

and a herd of crownless deer wept

when I saw distant mountains and rough fields

come together without arrangement on this forlorn road—

I walked alone in penance

because at the temple where a woman is shrined in grief

a candlelight always burns.

Lost in thought, I stood and watched

when a driving horse clattering its bells

pulling a carriage of blue silk and shaman scarlet

passed by in a hurry.

I would call her name now if I could find her—

A word always remains in the middle of our hearts

we leave unspoken in the end.

Oh, a portrait of the woman inhabits

the ruined gatehouse of my home,

her colors fading within myself—

Instead, I am crying here

since thoughts can only build dreams.

After a wind skirts a tree’s branch,

I would let myself go if I could be a rumor in the wind.


Mother and Sisters

Mother and sisters, we’ll live together by the river

with a sandbar blooming golden for our garden

and reeds fluting music from behind the gate.

Mother and sisters, we’ll live together by the river (


Invocation

O, name shattered.
O, name vanished into thin air.
O, name without response to my call.
O, name I will be calling till death.

You’ve gone before, I have said,
one last word etched on my heart.
O, my love nearest my heart,
nearest my heart.

The red sun hangs over the western peaks.
Even a herd of deer laments.
I am calling to you
as I stand on a lone hill.

I call to you till sorrow chokes me,
sorrow chokes me.
But my voice rings hollow in the vast void
between heaven and earth.

Should I turn to stone
I will be calling to you.
O, my love nearest my heart,
nearest my heart.

Wild Flowers of the Mountains

In the mountains are blowing flowers,

there the flowers blow,

autumn, spring and summer through,

there the flowers blow.

In the mountains far and near,

In the mountains everywhere,

there the flowers bloom and blow,

so lovely, wild and fair.

In the mountains are singing birds,

where the flowers blow;

There they sing the seasons through

because the flowers blow

In the mountains are blowing flowers,

and there the flowers wilt;

autumn, spring and summer through,

there the flowers wilt.

Unable to Forget

Unable to forget, you recall your love;

Yet let life pass away, though in pain.

One day you may be able to forget.

Unable to forget, you recall your love;

Yet just bid the years to slip away.

Unable to forget, you may still forget a little.


The Sea

where are the waters

whose waves pulse, rise, fall, swell—

as the seaweed grows red?

where are the waters

whose fishermen lie in their boats—

singing songs of love and chance?

where are the waters

whose skies die gently at twilight—

cobalt from grey from cool black?

where are the waters

whose wandering birds build flocks—

more massive as they recede into distances?

where are the waters

I would cross over, without a thought—

the last sea without land on the other side?


Azalea Flowers

When you feel disgusted looking at me

And if you feel like leaving me

I will let you go without whining a word

I will go to Yongbyon's Yaksan (Mountain)

I will bring an armful of azaleas

I will lay the azalea flowers on the path you'd take

Softly, lightly,

take one step after another on the fresh flowers

as you're going away

You may go away if you feel disgusted looking at me

I will not let a single tear drop fall

I'd rather die if you leave me, though

Road

Yesterday again

at an inn

I spent a sleepless night with the cawing crows.

Today

how many more miles

on my journey I don't know whither?

Shall I climb the hill

or walk on the field?

Wanted nowhere, I cannot go any farther.

Don't mention my home

at Kwaksan, Chongju,

where trains go and boats too

Look at the geese

in mid air.

Are they flying so well because there's a path?

Look at the geese

in mid air.

I'm standing right at a crossroads.

Of all the roads branching

to all directions,

There's none for me to take readily

Song of the Stream

If you had been born as a wind!

In the middle of an empty field by the stream at moonrise

you would blow loose all the ties of my clothes.

Or if we had been born as wriggling white bugs!

We would try dreaming that foolish dream

of a rainy black night at the foot of some hill.

If only you had been born as a rock on a cliff

where the sea comes to its end,

the two of us would embrace and tumble in.

Let my body be the spirit of fire
burning in your heart the night through,

the two of us burn to ash and vanish


I didn't know till now

That the moon rises nightly, in spring or fall,

I didn't know till now.

How much I'd suffer from longing

I didn't know till now.

That the moon is there, no matter how bright,

I didn't know till now.

That the moon is for all the sorrow

I didn't know till now.