Wind and earth draw their veil over the age of Kali,
and vision falters.

The wind rises—not with gentleness,
but with a fierce intent,
scouring the plains clean
with truths long neglected.
The earth shudders,
not in labor, but in burial,
covering the age in dust
and unbroken quiet.

Eyes can no longer see beyond the curtain.
Hearts lose the trail they once trusted.
Time itself stumbles,
and the stars grow dim,
as if in mourning.

This is the hour when sight is arrested,
when prophets speak only in fragments,
and the wise fall silent
before what cannot be named.

Yet beneath that hush
a seed endures—
hidden in consecrated ground,
waiting
for the breath of mercy.

And when the veil is lifted,
it will not be torn away by force,
but opened by the gentle return
of justice,
of joy,
of the One who sees clearly,
even in the deepest dark.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1980