To the ear, Sung floats like a dawn chorus—pronounced “soong,” soft as a silk fan opening—yet beneath those gentle syllables lies a heritage as steady as the Joseon mountains and as far-roaming as the Pacific trade winds that once whispered “terra nova” to Iberian explorers; in Korean, the hanja behind Sung may signify “to succeed,” “to accomplish,” even “to become a star,” so the name carries the quiet promise of goals met and horizons crossed. He is a name that invites sunlight: third-generation grandmothers in Los Angeles still smile when young Sung charges across the soccer field, while statisticians note his shy but faithful appearance on American birth charts from the 1950s through the early 2000s, a modest yet persistent glimmer—rather like a candle that refuses to surrender to the night. If one listens closely, there is a cadence here that echoes both canto gregoriano and pansori, medieval Latin hymn and Korean epic blending in a single note, and the result is gently triumphant: choosing Sung is a bit like gifting a newborn a pocket sunrise, small enough to cradle in a palm, bright enough to compass an entire life.
Sung Hoon - |
Sung Y. Kim - |
Sung Kang - |
Sung Min - |
Sung Si-kyung - |
Sung Ji-ru - |
Sung Hyuk - |