Gisaeng. I am.

(A peek towards the Joseon Dynasty, Korea)

Disrobe.

My heart gets disrobed and robbed.

Flattery.

Will get you anywhere. But no where I like.

Shame.

We are born with it. Concealed by pride.

Whatever disgrace I may smother,

I cannot smother these sighs of pain.

In my heart,

in my weary body.

Soju, I serve for the

Yangbans's around the table,

Playing the saenghwang 

with great pride I can muster.

No strings attached,

yet, attached in so many ways.

When can we free ourselves?

My Lord?!

Freedom from the strains,

the lustful eyes,

from the groping hands 

and the seeking minds.

No praise we gain,

just scandals and shame

the torture which drains

in the end of each day.

Unrestrained.

And on richness and silk,

you lay my bed,

bidded to the highest,

sold on a floral design.

Oh my gisaeng heart!

weeps in the middle of the night.

Singing a kisaeng song,

a tune only we ginyeos understand. 

And if I scream

will you hear?

Will you care?

Will you be near?

Unheeding the class, caste, the rank?

Fumbling with the safety latches,

I try to save the last of the strings

in my heart.

"Flowers that could understand words"

why wilt on a dull summer's day? 

Malsha Walgamage©

1/2/2012