History flows on.
Without knowing its beginning,
Without knowing its end,
It continues onward, unknowing.
History does not care
about an individual’s pain.
Someone’s tears of blood,
A group’s humiliation-
To the descendants who follow,
they may remain as nothing more than a few lines in writing.
No, in most cases, they are never preserved at all.
They slip from memory.
I am one who survived, bearing the shame of my ancestors;
We are all remnants of a history that has already passed.
Even if I loathe it,
Even if it pains me,
I cannot halt its flow.
We cannot stop our era from passing
just because we despise it.
Our era has passed.