I respect the DPRK, but I love the USSR.

 North Korea is my brother. He is a warrior like me, because being under constant siege requires it. Because of that, there is a mutual admiration between us. The Soviet Union, on the other hand, is my mother. I imagine that beside her, I could cry without shame and behave like a child without restraint, because she treats me with both affection and understanding in every circumstance—always as if she were behind me. As if she will never leave me, no matter what happens. Would a mother like that ever let go of her child, anyway? But only her ghost pleasantly haunts me, since her body passed away decades ago. In other words, North Korea and I are orphaned children, hardened by the hardships of life, with the persistent legacy and memory of our mother. I respect the DPRK, but I love the USSR. While I live, I want to carry the North Korean flag in brotherhood. When I die—if I am to be placed in a coffin—let them wrap my coffin in the Soviet flag. Just as I lived fighting beside my brother, I want to die in my mother’s arms. If I had a loving family in the physical world, I would never have such an eternal bond...