Hansi by Hŏ Nansŏrhŏn (1563–1589)

AT MY SON’S GRAVE
One year ago I lost my beloved daughter;
this year I lost my beloved son.
How sad, how sad this expanse of tombs,
where two graves line up facing each other.
In the poplar branches the wind desolately cries;
in the pine grove, spirit fires gleam.
Scattering the paper money I call your soul;
I pour the cup of wine on your grave.
May your lonely souls, brother and sister,
play joyfully each night as before you were born.
A baby is growing inside, I know, but how
will I know if I can raise the child, as things go?
Lost in grief I repeat this lament;
with tears of blood, I choke down each bitter note.

CONTEMPLATION

Delicate petals of the orchid in the window,
so piercing, their fragrance.
Let the autumn wind just pass through them,
they begin to wilt at the cold touch of frost.
Their shape begins to change, to fall,
but their clear fragrance does not die.
Seeing their form, my heart aches,
my tears fall, my sleeves are wet.

SENDING OFF

Yellow gold, beautifully wrought,
the half-moon pendant was a gift
from my in-laws when I came in marriage.
I hung it on my red silk gown.
I give it to you, my love, as you start off today,
hoping you will look at it as a token of my love.
It will not be so awful if you leave it on the way,
just do not hand it over as a gift to some new love.

TO MY ELDER BROTHER

By the dark window a candle flame flickers low;
the lights of the fireflies climb up over the roof.
The deep, dark night turns colder;
whispering, the leaves are falling and scattering.
Mountain and stream blocking the way, not much news gets

through.
I cannot ease my concerns as I am thinking of you.
How I miss you, far from where you stay at the Blue Lotus

Palace!
Deep in these vacant hills, only the moon shines through the

vines.

THE YOUNG SEAMSTRESS

How can this worn face appeal?
Working at embroidery, then returning to work at the weaving
from behind a gate where there is little or nothing and long

without heat.
The matchmaker won’t let anyone know of one so meek.

Cold, starving, but the expression does not show it;
all day by the window weaving the hempen cloth.
Only father thinks it pitiful, but others in the place,
how will they ever know of me?

All night without rest weaving the hempen cloth,
the loom going clack-clack, clack-clack, a chilly sound.
Weave one roll on the loom, and wonder
for whose house, whose daughter will it be a dowry?

Scissors in hand, cut the cloth in pieces;
and though the night is cold, all ten fingers are straight.
I make clothes for others going to be married,
while year after year, it is I who must sleep alone.