Sleep tight, my child dear.
Mother is here, nothing to fear.
If the child snatcher, comes at our steps.
I will stab him with my own hands.
~Byeol
Biting back at dragon's scale,
I run through the weapons crossing like chaotic clouds flying past.
The mighty sword rise in air,
Only to drown in sin so deep.
My hands stained with blood so red,
Root betrayed.
Blood of kin,
A price I have paid.
Heaven's cry, in torrent rage.
~Byeol
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Biting back at dragon scale: symbolises act of going against the emperor
Root betrayed: betraying your own family
" I stand on the chang'an's street with tattered clothes and tattered hands".
I follow deep the fireflies, running barefoot among the sea of faces,
"I get out in the pitch of darkness".
Oh! My beloved now I can "only drink the northwest winds".
~Byeol
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North west wind: is a Chinese idiom for extreme poverty
Silk merchant 's gaze, a practical sweep,
Fine thread he seeks, where shadows sleep.
A finger points, with eager grace,
"This crimson hue, a rare embrace!"
Young maiden stands,with eyes so deep,
My mother's hand, it secret keep.
The silkworm spun a crimson stain,
Where pain and love, did interwine.
"Her wounded hands, the thread did hold"
A sacrifice, a story to told.
The silk, it glows, with life's own fire,
A mother's love, that "burns no higher".
Merchant's hand is still it's quest,
A sudden weight, upon his breast.
No words he speaks, no price he names,
But feels the sting, of hidden flames.
He sees not silk, but crimson Tide,
Where love and loss, forever ride.
The silent tears, the woven plea,
A mother's heart, eternally.
~Byeol
Lady Tua, frequently look in the pond,
but who may tell her ladyship?
That turbulent water shows no reflection.
~Byeol
I left home in dreams of battlefield glory,
When Pea flower dot the golden brown cole
In the delicate bloom of late spring.
I cycled to the frontlines,
Wheels whispering of broken prophecies.
The great willow seemed to know me in roundabout,
So sent forth a shower of riverside catkin.
I return home as snowflakes whirl in a winter night,
Ice blurring my line of sight.
The children, unknowing
Run past and bow respectfully
As to any travelling elder, a companion in wooden stick.
They think me a stranger and speak of good wine,
Gone was the willow and cole flower,
In dreams now I only see fields of lusty green.
Who can understand my sorrow now?
I wash with frozen river water,
For there’s none the wiser,
None quite so forgiving.
Wandering freely,
Cheerfully pacing the void,
Coming and going --
Even candles in the wind
Briefly shed light on the path.
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