Classic Poem

Me, a fellow who powders his face
and lets his long, thick hair hang down in a braid.
Evenings when they're playing the reed horns, those guys
with their straw hats, hemp cords dangling in back,
I turn into Hyangdan, Hyangdan the Maid, wrapping myself in a dark red skirt.
We get hold of some just-wide-enough space
in the town market, and with the lights turned up
out on the asphalt, for ten minutes my voice, my man's voice gets subdued.
Over in a village up across the mountain
was a pretty girl I'd have loved to give
a silver ring to,
but the very next morning
she'd have taken it off, I know it!
I must have gypsy blood, the way I wander,
wondering each day what little town we'll enter next.
Following the mule
loaded with all our props,
shaking dew off the wild strawberries we find
the dawn light, as it spreads across our road,
like the reed horn that calls out the ones who want to see:
mixing sadness and happiness, it all opens out before us.