Classic Poem

Beloved one, my lord,
here in your home, in your home,
but should you go abroad, Korean tigers,
the godly ones, you'd seize alive,
eight head you'd take, and of their pelts
make folded mats, eight-folded mats
like the folded hills of Heguri
where in the fourth and fifth months
I serve in the medicine hunt.
On those foot-wearying mountain slopes,
where two yew trees stand,
clasping in my hand eight bows of catalpa,
clasping in my hand eight turnip-tip arrows,
I lay in wait for the deer.
And as I waited a stag came and stood
and spoke in sorrow:
" In a moment I must die —
now I will serve my great lord,
my horns trim his headgear,
my ears fashion inkwells,
my eyes be clear mirrors,
my hoofs tip the bow ends,
my hairs make writing brushes,
my hide the hide of boxes,
my flesh for mincemeat,
my liver too for mincemeat,
my guts to be pickled.
Old toiler, my one body
will have a sevenfold flowering,
an eightfold flowering —
praise me, sing my praise! "