One stroke holds the truth
What the king feared was not the sword — it was the ink
The hand that held a brush in the Confucian academy yard
Top of the state examination, my name went up on the board
I stood in the Office of Censors and spoke plainly
One petition, and my rank was gone
The name they called loyal, overnight
Was swapped for a traitor's tag
At the tribunal gate I did not bow my head
If writing the truth is a crime, I will take it gladly
A thousand ri of exile road on foot
Thrown into the wind of Jeju
The brush broke, but the fingers remained
Written in dirt, writing is still writing
A blade hidden at the brush tip
One word wakes a thousand people
Before the ink dries
This truth climbs the palace wall
Erase it, burn it
From the ashes the letters bloom again
King, be afraid
What you cannot kill is a thought
One inkstone hidden in a one-room thatched house
Night after night I drew the world again on hanji
By day, playing fisherman, casting the net
By night, a scholar's hand, taking up the brush again
A student came and knelt before me
"Master, your writing has spread to the capital"
Mouth to mouth, market to tavern
The words the king erased became the people's song
No paper — I write on the wall
No wall — I send it on the wind
Power is afraid of ink
And ink does not kneel before power
A blade hidden at the brush tip
One word wakes a thousand people
Before the ink dries
This truth climbs the palace wall
Erase it, burn it
From the ashes the letters bloom again
King, be afraid
What you cannot kill is a thought
Even when the king orders the histories rewritten
You can break a brush, but you cannot break the truth
The road Jo Gwang-jo walked
The nights Jeong Yak-yong endured
In this place of exile I follow after them
History is not written by the king
It is written by the letters that survive
A blade hidden at the brush tip
One word wakes a thousand people
Before the ink dries
This truth climbs the palace wall
Erase it, burn it
From the ashes the letters bloom again
King, be afraid
What you cannot kill is a thought
The wind carries the letters
From a place of exile a thousand ri away
My writing blooms on the walls of Hanyang
The brush breaks, but the ink does not dry