Bruised heart
stands on
the edge of cliff
pondering to fly
to the higher conscience.

It creeps into the heart, grilling–a merciless judge
Poor defender searches in her head for a right answer
for having evaded her duty as a good daughter–
being so far away, seeing her sporadically, this and that.
I still see vividly the pink-flowered Hanbok she made
for me to wear for the first day of my kindergarten,
I feel the warmth of her hand that took mine,
buried in the deep ocean of memory.
I wish I could go back to her and give her a big hug.

So what came out of that selfishness?
Nothing, your honor,
except, gaining some insight to see beyond the horizon.
Stream flows into the river then to the ocean,
it may get some saltiness in the process yet still remain as water,
recognizing the quality of diversity of ourselves,
we follow basically the same rules of our lives as any other’s, etc.

You may not be a great achiever but have lived as a normal human being,
therefore, you are not guilty.
Thank you, your honor.  Still my heart rains with constant cloud of guilt
that no psychiatrist can heal.
We all have some sort of guilt in us, woman.
That’s why we call ourselves sinners.
Repent in front of God, and he’ll clean your soul.
Thank you, your honor, but…
I hear her saying she has forgiven me,
so suffer no more.  Yet the blotch of guilt is etched in my heart,
and I learn to live with that.

–Byung A. Fallgren

4 thoughts on “Guilt

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