ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«½£À¸·Î
°¡¼
±¤Çý¿ø ÀÌ¿ù¸¶À»¿¡¼ Ä¥Çö»ê ±â½¾¿¡ À̸£±â Àü¿¡
±×¸¸ ³ª´Â ¿µ¹® ¸ð¸¦ µå³ÐÀº ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹« ºÐÁö·Î Á¢¾îµé¾ú´Ù
´©±º°¡°¡ °¡¶ó°í ³» µîÀ» ¶°¹Ð¾ú´ÂÁö ³ª´Â µÚµ¹¾Æº¸¾Ò´Ù
¾Æ¹«µµ ¾ø´Ù ´Ù¸¸ ´«¹ß¿¡ Àͼ÷ÇÑ ¸Õ »ê¿¡ ´ëÇؼ
¾Æ¹«·± »ó°üµµ ¾ø°Ô ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«½£ÀÇ ¹þÀº ¸öµéÀÌ
ÀÌ ¼¼»óÀ» Á¤Á÷ÇÏ°Ô ÇÑ´Ù ±×·¸±¸³ª °Ü¿ï ³ª¹«µé¸¸ÀÌ Å¸¶ôÀ» ¸ð¸¥´Ù
½½ÇÄ¿¡´Â °ÅÁþÀÌ ¾ø´Ù ¾îÂî »îÀ¸·Î ¿ïÁö ¾ÊÀº »ç¶÷ÀÌ ÀÖ°Ú´À³Ä
¿À·¡¿À·¡ ¿ì¸®³ª¶ó ¿©Àھ߸»·Î ¿ïÀ½À̾ú´Ù ½º½º·Î ´Þ·¡¾î¿Â ¿ïÀ½À̾ú´Ù
ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«´Â ÀúÈñµé³¢¸®°Ç¸¸ ã¾Æµç ³ª±îÁö Çϳª°¡ µÈ´Ù
´©±¸³ª ´Ù ¿©±â ¿ÀÁö ¸øÇصµ ¿©±â¿¡ ¿Â °ÍÀ̳ª ´Ù¸§¾øÀÌ
ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«´Â ¿ÀÁö ¸øÇÑ »ç¶÷ ÇϳªÇϳª¿Íµµ ÇÔ²²ÀÎ ¾ç ¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù
³ª´Â ³ª¹«¿Í ³ª¹µ°¡Áö¿Í ±íÀº ÇÏ´Ã ¼ÓÀÇ ¿ìµëÁöÀÇ ¶³¸²À» º¸¸ç
³ª Àڽſ¡°Ôµµ ¼¼»ó¿¡µµ ¿ìÂáÇؼ ³ª¹µÁü Áö°Ô ¹«°Ì°Ô Áö°í ½Í¾ú´Ù
¾Æ´Ï ÀÌ·± Ãß¿î °÷ÀÇ Àû¸·À¸·Î ž´Â ´«¿±À̳ª
»ï°Å¸® ¼úÁýÀÇ »îÀº °í±âó·³ ¼øÇÏ°í ½Í¾ú´Ù
³Ê¹«³ª ±³Á¶ÀûÀÎ »îÀ̾úÀ¸¹Ç·Î ¹Ìdz¿¡ ´ëÇؼµµ »ç³ª¿üÀ¸¹Ç·Î
¾ó¸¶¸¸ÀÌ³Ä ÀÌ·± °÷À̾߸»·Î ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ½Ê¿©³â ¸¸¿¡ °·ÄÇÑ °÷ÀÌ´Ù
°·ÄÇÑ ÀÌ °æ°Ç¼º! ÀÌ°ÍÀº ³ª ÇÑ »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó
¿Â ¼¼»óÀ» ÇâÇØ ¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ³» ¹÷Âù °¡½¿Àº ¹ú½á ¾Ë°í ÀÖ´Ù
»ç¶÷µéµµ ÀڱⰡ ¸ðµç ³¹³¹ ÁßÀÇ ÇϳªÀÓÀ» ±ú´ÞÀ» ¶§°¡ ¿Â´Ù
³ª´Â ¾î¸° ½ÃÀý¿¡ ÀÌ¹Ì ´Ä¾î¹ö·È´Ù ¿©±â ¿Í¼ ³ª´Â ¶Ç ž¾ß ÇÑ´Ù
±×·¡¼ ÀÌÁ¦ ³ª´Â ÀÚÀÛ³ª¹«ÀÇ ÃµºÎÀûÀÎ °Ü¿ï°ú ÇÔ²²
±ú¹°¾î¸Ô°í ½ÍÀº ¾î¿©»Ý¿¡ µé¶° ³²ÀÇ ¾î¸° ¿Üµ¿À¸·Î ÀÚ¶ó³´Ù
³ª´Â ±¤Çý¿øÀ¸·Î ³»·Á°¡´Â ±æÀ» µîÁö°í »èdzÀÇ Ä¥Çö»ê ÇèÇÑ ±æ·Î ¼½¿¾øÀÌ ÁöÇâÇß´Ù
Before I reached Chilhyŏn Mountain on
my way from Kwanghye-wŏn one February,
I found myself approaching a broad
valley thick with white birch trees.
Someone said: Go on! and gave me a push
in the back.
I turned to see who it was. There
was no one there. But look!
How honestly the cast-off boles of
the white birch grove confront the world!
They are altogether indifferent to
the distant hills that are fully accustomed to snow.
The winter trees alone know nothing
of depravity.
There are no lies in sorrow. And
how can anyone not weep at life?
In our country, for centuries
weeping was really women¡¯s work: weeping that would find its comfort in itself.
The birch trees live to themselves but
make me one of them.
Not everyone can come here, but it
doesn¡¯t matter, the trees make themselves one with each of us and they are
beautiful!
As I beheld the trees, the branches
of the trees, the trembling of the tree-tops in the sky, I grew too proud with
myself and the world,
and longed to be burdened heavily, heavily
burdened with bundles of firewood.
Or rather, I longed to become
gentle and mild like a new bud born of this cold solitude;
gentle and mild as the well-cooked
meat at a crossroads tavern.
Because my life was too dogmatic, because
I was harsh, even to the breeze.
How long ago was it? This kind of
place?
This place has that intensity we
find only once in ten years. That revered intensity! I feel a lump rising in my
throat,
my heart knows that this intensity is
not addressed to me alone, it is addressed to the whole wide world.
The time is coming when people will
realize that they are each one part of a multitude.
When I was a child, I already grew
old. Arriving here, now I have to be born again.
So in this moment, one with the
white birch¡¯s quite natural winter,
I return to a state of charm and
prettiness, growing up as another person¡¯s only child.
I turned my back on the road
leading down to Kwanghyewŏn and headed for the rugged mountain path leading towards
windswept Chilhyŏn Mountain.