Classic Poem

Even today, the streets
that greet and send away numerous people
are crowded with
streetcars and automobiles;
where do they go and where do they come from?

At the heart of the crossroads, civilization's new machine
turns its head this way and that way,
replacing the red and green flags of the past.
Stop, Caution, Go.
People, cars, and animals, as if practicing drill.
Is this all that has changed?

Unfamiliar buildings overlook Posin'gak belfry from far above.
Where have they gone, the dignified signboards of the past?
Has the wind so fiercely swept the streets?
Red and blue neon crawls like worms
on the brick wall above the roof.

Oh, how much I missed you, streets of home! This is the Chongno intersection.
Leaving a distant hut below Mount Nak, I have returned
yearning for you, only you.
Wide streets and neat houses!
Countless passers-by who come and go under the distant sky!
How have you all been?
How am I to bear this joy that fills my heart?
I raised my hand repeatedly to greet you and smiled upon everything.
Bustling streets! Chongno streets of my home!
What has become of you; are you dead? Have you been sold out to a stranger?
Or, have you forgotten it all?
I who had praised you in songs with a throbbing heart,
and a raging wave of young men who had gushed through the streets, satiating your heart.
My poor Suni had fallen over to cry here.
Beloved street! Since then, hasn't anyone shed tears on you, grudging the loss of a young man?
Haven't any familiar ones passed by?

Tonight as in the past, life's tragedy would sleep on your stone steps.
Tomorrow, they would collect dust from your ground.
And without knowing where to go and what to do for a living,
the heavy steps of those would tread on you with their heads down.
But you wouldn't, perhaps, forget all this,
send them away with no more than fatigue, sorrow, and despair.
Though quiet and faint, they will hear in silence the great song of tomorrow,
And walk by outside the gate at a distance.

Oh, dear streets, the long-missed place of home!
Like those of my precious sister Suni
and her beloved gallant young men of this country:
how many traces of those mighty and beautiful youngsters who knew
resentment and joy, how to care for others, fight, and —the dark—that covers you like—, have you greeted and sent away?
You, the streets of home . . . I no longer see
a single familiar face on you.

Your old friends, who used to rattle like market crowds and scatter quickly as fire
in the open yard before the familiar two-story building where signboards used to hang in a row,
and where, now, the white flag of the newspaper company droops down like folded wings, may all have gone far away.
They may have perished as Suni's young daughter withered away.
But have the flaming footsteps of the truly gallant heroes ever ceased,
like those of several noble youths we know?
I don't know the faces of all these new generations.
But “Be alive and well! Let there be glory on the bitter paths ahead.”
May I ask you, streets, to please pass my words on to all of them!
Good bye! Streets of home!
And be generous to those youngsters.
Though I may die upon, and never rise up again,
Wretched city! Chongno intersection! My beloved Suni!
I will write neither repentance nor request, not a word upon my will.