To feed his family, the poet got a job as a caretaker in a dining room. Then it was no exception. It was everyday life then. Everyone continued to live, pretending that nothing special had happened. Only V. Gorbenko and I continued to translate the poems of Kim Tsung-sung, occasionally publishing them in the magazines “Far East” (Khabarovsk), “Baikal” (Ulan-Ude), “Siberian Lights” (Novosibirsk) - away from Sakhalin. Once, even Sofronov’s “Ogonyok” published Kim Tsung-sung’s poems. And Kim Chung-song himself continued to work as a supply manager. From time to time we met in his poor but welcoming home. “The owner has arrived!” Mysterious Korean cuisine. Mysterious tinctures. And always poetry. But while reading his sad stanzas, Kim Chung-sung only pretended that he had a future. He died as a canteen manager. But a poet can die as a provincial canteen manager, in the readers’ memory he will still remain a poet.