Evening pigeons would always take flight from the bamboo grove,
Heading toward the western peaks where the sun was sinking low.
As the sunset glow began to burn a deep crimson,
The village children would herd their cattle toward the hills.
Cows, too sluggish even to shoo away the flies, moved with heavy, lingering steps,
While the little ones skipped stones far across the stream,
Or whistled melodies through pipes made of pussy willow.
When the sun tilted and they returned home with the cows leading the way,
Father would be in the backyard, splitting firewood,
And Mother would be boiling evening potatoes in the great iron cauldron.
Dinner was set on a straw mat spread in the front yard;
While the ox in the stable just blinked its large, quiet eyes,
The speckled dog—having caught a playful scolding—
Lingeried by the smudge fire, still wagging its tail in hopeful longing.
After the meal, watching the stars in the night sky,
We would listen to Grandmother’s old tales until, one by one, we drifted off.
Even in sleep, the children dreamed of Grandmother.
And today, as an adult, I still dream—
Vividly, yet like a distant, hazy memory.
꿈
이완근
언제나 저녁 비둘기는 대밭을 날아올라
태양이 저물어가는 서쪽 산꼭대기로 향했다
저녁노을이 빠알갛게 달아오르기 시작하면
동네 아이들은 소를 몰고 산으로 향했다
날파리조차 쫓기 싫은 게으른 소는 느릿느릿 걸음을 옮기고
꼬마들은 돌멩이를 냇가 저 멀리까지 날렸다
버들강아지로 휘파람을 불어제끼기도 했다
해가 기울어 소를 앞세우고 집에 돌아오면
아버지는 뒤꼍에서 장작을 패고 계셨고
어머니는 저녁 감자를 가마솥에 삶고 계셨다
멍석 깔린 앞마당엔 저녁상이 놓였고
외양간의 소는 큰 눈만 껌벅이고 있는데
한 대 얻어맞은 바둑이는 모깃불 옆에서
아직도 미련을 버리지 못하고 꼬리만 흔들고 있었다
저녁을 마치면 밤하늘의 별을 보며 할머니의 옛날이야기를 듣다가
하나둘씩 잠이 들었다
잠이 들어서도 아이들은 할머니 꿈을 꿨다
그리고 어른이 된 오늘도 꿈을 꾼다. 아련하게 또렷하게
