Having locked away my sorrow,
when June comes,
you return as white baby’s breath.
Never forgetting the countless turnings of the sun,
when June comes,
you return in pale rubber shoes.
That white morning,
whenever the ceremonial gunfire resounds,
a sharp pain pierces the pit of my stomach,
and with all my heart, I bow in reverence.
Passing the rose hedges red as blood,
on the day fleabanes bloom profusely like stars,
in scattered June,
I offer prayers to you as sacred memorial offerings.
When your patriotism reaches the roots
and deep green foliage flourishes,
when that day comes,
before the burial mound
long swept into obscurity by time,
forgive us,
forgive us to the very roots.
By that graveside,
where a lone eagle circles the distant sky,
before the bluish-jade monument soaring upward,
with a few streams of tears,
with a few strands of wind,
I brush across the epitaph.
Now this worn-out longing,
I hold it close once more,
feeling a quiet retching of the soul.
Soon the torrential rains will come.
What shall I do?
Clutching a sliver of sunlight,
my heart will be soaked through,
my tender eyes flooded.
Entwined at the fading edge
of the ceremonial gunfire we must remember,
once again today, I long for you,
unknown patriots who guarded the nation.
When, within the fluttering flags,
I hear the chorus of hope,
I say I am sorry,
so wholly sorry,
and with all my heart, I bow in reverence.
June,
as white baby’s breath,
bloom again,
bloom once more.
