As barley ears ripen and shed, to Ganghwa Gyodong Island I go where I hear the crying sound of my little sibling, left behind in the northern land. "If the Inmin-gun (People's Army) catches us, we all die Wait just a few days with grandmother." Grasping the hem of mother's skirt, I shook off those tiny hands and left you. When the sun sets slowly over the western ridge, the little one looks up at the southern sky and cries aloud. They say it was too heartbreaking to even look back upon. Though you may have forgotten the word "mother," making a quilt out of the silk fabric she brought when she married into the family, you are keeping it safely treasured inside the closet. When reunification comes, we will share it and cover ourselves, and I will speak of those days of injustice. To blame anyone at this point— the accumulated years are a thousand miles long. Today, all of a sudden, in the dreamlike whisper of the barley stalk forest, I encounter the crying sound of my sibling. The sorrowful deep resentment of the northern land is listening to it all.