Once I am shaped as the reason of your disgust, pushing  
you toward somewhere not here, there  
will be no words, my letting-go enduring graciously.

On a hill where herbs grow in Yongbyon province  
Jindallae flowers are blossoming, and here  
I have brought an armful I plucked to scatter them before you

as you take those steps away from here, and for each you take  
a flower will need to be crushed, so take care to tread  
lightly as you leave me be

in the shape of who I am that disgusts you so, pushing  
you toward somewhere not here, though  
this may be my death, no, tears won’t flow where I am.