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History : Yoon Dong-ju (1917–1945) | A Poet Who Looked Up at the Sky

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History : Yoon Dong-ju (1917–1945) | A Poet Who Looked Up at the Sky

윤동주

Yoon Dong-ju (1917–1945) was a Korean poet who looked up at the sky and felt ashamed. He loved stars, and the dying, and the path given to him. He died at twenty-seven, before his poems were ever published.

I wanted to share these poems with those who cannot read Korean. But translation is never one thing — so I offer two: one that stays close to what he wrote, and one that reaches for what he meant.

01. 서시 (Prologue)

죽는 날까지 하늘을 우러러 한 점 부끄럼이 없기를,

잎새에 이는 바람에도 나는 괴로워했다.

별을 노래하는 마음으로 모든 죽어가는 것을 사랑해야지

그리고 나한테 주어진 길을 걸어가야겠다.

오늘 밤에도 별이 바람에 스치운다.

Close Translation

Until the day I die, I look up at the sky —

let there be not one moment of shame.

Even at the wind that stirs the leaves,

I suffered. With a heart that sings of stars,

I must love all dying things,

and walk the path

given to me. Tonight too, the stars brush against the wind.

Poetic Adaptation

Before the sky, until the day I die,

let me carry no shame within me —

even the wind that stirs a single leaf was enough to make me suffer.

With the heart that sings toward stars,

I will love all things that are passing,

and walk the path given to me.

Tonight, again, the stars are grazed by wind.

02. 별 헤는 밤 (Night of Counting Stars)

계절이 지나가는 하늘에는 가을로 가득 차 있습니다.

나는 아무 걱정도 없이 가을 속의 별들을 다 헤일 듯합니다.

가슴속에 하나 둘 새겨지는 별을 이제 다 못 헤는 것은 쉬이 아침이 오는 까닭이요,

내일 밤이 남은 까닭이요, 아직 나의 청춘이 다하지 않은 까닭입니다.

별 하나에 추억과

별 하나에 사랑과

별 하나에 쓸쓸함과

별 하나에 동경과

별 하나에 시와

별 하나에 어머니, 어머니,

어머님, 나는 별 하나에 아름다운 말 한 마디씩 불러 봅니다.

소학교 때 책상을 같이 했던 아이들의 이름과,

패, 경, 옥 이런 이국 소녀들의 이름과,

벌써 애기 어머니 된 계집애들의 이름과, 가난한 이웃 사람들의 이름과,

비둘기, 강아지, 토끼, 노새, 노루, ‘프랑시스 잠’, ‘라이너 마리아 릴케’

이런 시인의 이름을 불러 봅니다.

이네들은 너무나 멀리 있습니다. 별이 아슬히 멀듯이,

어머님, 그리고 당신은 멀리 북간도에 계십니다.

나는 무엇인지 그리워 이 많은 별빛이 내린 언덕 위에 내 이름자를 써 보고,

흙으로 덮어 버리었습니다.

딴은 밤을 새워 우는 벌레는 부끄러운 이름을 슬퍼하는 까닭입니다.

그러나 겨울이 지나고 나의 별에도 봄이 오면 무덤 위에 파란 잔디가 피어나듯이

내 이름자 묻힌 언덕 위에도 자랑처럼 풀이 무성할 게외다.

Close Translation

In the sky where seasons pass,

autumn fills everything. Without a single worry,

I feel I could count every star in the autumn. That I cannot count them all —

the stars engraved one by one in my chest —

is because morning comes too soon,

because tomorrow night still remains,

because my youth has not yet ended. To one star, memory,

to one star, love,

to one star, loneliness,

to one star, longing,

to one star, poetry,

to one star, mother, mother —

Mother, to each star I call one beautiful word:

the names of children who shared my desk in primary school,

the names of foreign girls — Pae, Gyung, Ok —

the names of girls who are already young mothers,

the names of poor neighbors, pigeon, puppy, rabbit, mule, roe deer,

and the poets — Francis Jammes, Rainer Maria Rilke.

They are all so far away,

as far as the stars are far. Mother,

and you are far away in North Gando. Longing for something,

on this hill where starlight pours down,

I wrote my name

and covered it with earth. The insect that cries through the night

must be grieving a shameful name. But when winter passes and spring comes to my star too —

just as green grass grows above a grave —

on this hill where my name lies buried,

the grass will grow thick with pride.

Poetic Adaptation

The sky where seasons pass

is filled, filled with autumn. Without a single worry,

I feel I could count every star

burning in that autumn. That I cannot count them all —

the stars carved one by one into my chest —

is because morning arrives too soon,

because tomorrow night still waits,

because my youth has not yet burned away. To one star, memory,

to one star, love,

to one star, loneliness,

to one star, longing,

to one star, poetry,

to one star, mother — mother — Mother, to each star I call out one beautiful name.

The names of children who shared my desk in those early school days,

the names of foreign girls — Pae, Kyung, Ok —

the names of girls who are already someone’s young mother,

the names of poor neighbors,

pigeon, puppy, rabbit, mule, roe deer,

and the names of poets —

Francis Jammes, Rainer Maria Rilke —

I call them all. They are so far away.

As far as the stars are distant — Mother,

and you, too, are far away in the north, in Gando. Longing for something I cannot name,

upon this hill where starlight falls like rain,

I wrote my own name into the earth

and covered it over. For the insect that weeps through the night

must be mourning a name too shameful to keep. But when winter passes

and spring comes even to my star —

just as green grass blooms over a grave —

upon this hill where my name lies buried,

the grass will rise, thick and proud

as if it never knew grief.

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