The martyr’s Way

What shall I become when this body is dead and gone?

A tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan,

Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.

As the sound of drum calls for my life,

I turn my head where sun is about to set.

There is no inn on the way to underworld.

At whose house shall I sleep tonight?

A weary traveler who has lost his way,

I knock on the door with trembling hand.

A shiver runs down my spine as cold wind blows,

Who is within and who is outside?

The door cracks open ever so slightly.

What manner of being are you?

A pale woman with long black hair and pallid face,

Her eyes still haunted by horrors unseen.

She stands in front of me holding a dagger,

And her voice trembles like that of an old woman’s.

You have come to beg for your life.

What shall I become when this body is dead and gone?

A tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan,

Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.

The woman holds the knife, gripped as in rigor mortis,

Deadly still as in the pictures of Hans Holbein.

She plunges it into my chest and my heart stills.

I am a tall, thick pine tree on the highest peak of Bongraesan.

Evergreen alone when white snow covers the whole world.