Classic Poem

I am going.
Do not cry;
I am going.
Over the white hills, the black, and the parched hills,
down the long and dusty road to Seoul
I am going to sell my body.

Without a sad promise to return,
to return some time blooming with a lovely smile
to unbind my hair,
I am going.

Do not cry;
I am going.
Who can forget the four-o'clocks, or the scent
of wheat? Even in this wretched,
wretched life, the deeply unforgettable things . . .
and in the countless dreams I return,
drenched with tears,
following the moonlight . . .
I am going.
Do not cry;
I am going.
Over these parched hills that anguish
even the skies, down the long and dusty road to Seoul
I am going to sell my body.