Fireworks
Ah, the day is waning, in the western sky, over the lonely river, the even pinkish glow is fading . . . ah, when the sun sets, when the sun sets, night will return without fail. I weep alone beneath an apricot tree, but today is the eighth of April, and the sound of a crowd flooding the boulevard betokens festivities to come, so why am I the only one unable to stifle the tears welling up in my heart?
Ah, it's dancing, it's dancing, the blood red flame, it's dancing. Peering down from the hushed castle gate, the odor of water, the odor of sand, when the torch, biting the night, biting the sky, as if still hungering, bites and tears at its own flesh, a solitary youth weighted with a darkened heart hurls his blue dream of yesterday into the river, yet will the heartless waves suspend its shadow in the flow? Ah, there never was a flower that does not wilt once cut, yet the thought of my love departed kills the life in my heart. Ah, well, what's to be done, shall I burn this heart, shall I slay this sorrow with that flame? Yesterday, again, dragging my aching feet, I went to her grave to find the flowers wasted by winter had given way to unforeseen blooms. Will love's spring ever return, I wonder? Ah, with my heart freely bared, this night, into this water . . . might someone take pity on me . . . just then: " T'ung! " " T'ang! " Roman candles burst, spewing fiery blossoms, startled me back to my senses, the
hubbub of the spectators seems to mock me, to scold me. Ah, with ever deeper passion I want to live, even submerged in smoke like yon flames, even in the agony of suffocating flames, I want to lead a fiery life, and the sudden throb of the heart is none but my own. . . .
When the warm April wind rushes across the river, high on the hill of Ch'ongnyu Tower by Moran Peak, a dusky crowd of people sways, with each burst of wind the flame-dyed waves burn with mad laughter, spooked fish take cover in the sand, waves slap the ships broadside, figures pace to and fro with a drowsy rhythm — flickering shadows, rising peals of laughter beneath lanterns hanging overhead, a child kisaeng warbles at the top of her voice, the fireworks igniting sudden lust now are tiresome, one glass, another glass, yet another, the endless wine no longer welcome, lying listless in the filthy bottom of a boat, idle tears redden my eyes, weary of the incessant drumming, men with leering eyes leap from the boat, unable to endure their rekindled desire, as the dying candles left behind doze on the hems of rumpled skirts, the squeaking of the oars, as if the sound signified something, presses still harder on my heart. . . .
Ah, the river waters are laughing, laughing, a grotesque laugh it is, the laugh an icy river laughs looking up at a pitch dark sky. Ah, the boat is gaining, the boat is gaining, sadly, sadly squeaking at every gush of wind, the boat is gaining. . . .
Row the boat, all the way to Nungna Island asleep there in the distance, slice through the Taedong's swift currents. Turn your boat straight toward the hill where your beloved stands barefoot waiting. What of the cold wind rising in the waves' wake? What of the noise of that grotesque laughter? What — for you — of the darkened heart of a youth bereft of love, though without shadows there can be no light. Oh, only do not forgo this your day of certainty. Oh, oh, burn, burn! This very night! your red torch, your red lips, your eyes, and your red tears. . . .
Ah, it's dancing, it's dancing, the blood red flame, it's dancing. Peering down from the hushed castle gate, the odor of water, the odor of sand, when the torch, biting the night, biting the sky, as if still hungering, bites and tears at its own flesh, a solitary youth weighted with a darkened heart hurls his blue dream of yesterday into the river, yet will the heartless waves suspend its shadow in the flow? Ah, there never was a flower that does not wilt once cut, yet the thought of my love departed kills the life in my heart. Ah, well, what's to be done, shall I burn this heart, shall I slay this sorrow with that flame? Yesterday, again, dragging my aching feet, I went to her grave to find the flowers wasted by winter had given way to unforeseen blooms. Will love's spring ever return, I wonder? Ah, with my heart freely bared, this night, into this water . . . might someone take pity on me . . . just then: " T'ung! " " T'ang! " Roman candles burst, spewing fiery blossoms, startled me back to my senses, the
hubbub of the spectators seems to mock me, to scold me. Ah, with ever deeper passion I want to live, even submerged in smoke like yon flames, even in the agony of suffocating flames, I want to lead a fiery life, and the sudden throb of the heart is none but my own. . . .
When the warm April wind rushes across the river, high on the hill of Ch'ongnyu Tower by Moran Peak, a dusky crowd of people sways, with each burst of wind the flame-dyed waves burn with mad laughter, spooked fish take cover in the sand, waves slap the ships broadside, figures pace to and fro with a drowsy rhythm — flickering shadows, rising peals of laughter beneath lanterns hanging overhead, a child kisaeng warbles at the top of her voice, the fireworks igniting sudden lust now are tiresome, one glass, another glass, yet another, the endless wine no longer welcome, lying listless in the filthy bottom of a boat, idle tears redden my eyes, weary of the incessant drumming, men with leering eyes leap from the boat, unable to endure their rekindled desire, as the dying candles left behind doze on the hems of rumpled skirts, the squeaking of the oars, as if the sound signified something, presses still harder on my heart. . . .
Ah, the river waters are laughing, laughing, a grotesque laugh it is, the laugh an icy river laughs looking up at a pitch dark sky. Ah, the boat is gaining, the boat is gaining, sadly, sadly squeaking at every gush of wind, the boat is gaining. . . .
Row the boat, all the way to Nungna Island asleep there in the distance, slice through the Taedong's swift currents. Turn your boat straight toward the hill where your beloved stands barefoot waiting. What of the cold wind rising in the waves' wake? What of the noise of that grotesque laughter? What — for you — of the darkened heart of a youth bereft of love, though without shadows there can be no light. Oh, only do not forgo this your day of certainty. Oh, oh, burn, burn! This very night! your red torch, your red lips, your eyes, and your red tears. . . .
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