I look out the window.
There is sky.
There is wind.
The wind is sound.
The wind is noise.
The wind is the cry of the world.

The music of Jesus blares.
China shouts.
America shouts.
Israel shouts.
Arabia shouts.
Pakistan, Iran—
dust and dust, and more dust.

A face like Biafra,
a form like Auschwitz.
The wind turns to gas.

A single sunflower stands in an empty lot.
It does not beg for the sun.
It begs for life.
Life, life, life.

April, swept away by thunder,
clings now to the rains of monsoon.
Souls are heavy.
Fallout runs down.
And the sand grows fertile.

Words buried in the soil—
they are not waiting.
They are silence.
They are the lost face.

I ask.
I ask.
I ask again.
In which wind
shall I find my face?

No longer could I wait.
I had to beg.

This is not an ancient story.
This is not even today’s story.
This is the story of now.

The wind enters my lungs.
It becomes breath.
A cold breath.
A breath I cannot hold,
yet fills me wholly.

Now let us remove them.
Take off the gas mask.
Take off the windmill.
And stand.
Stand before the wind.

[Beginning Series – Part 7]

© TaeHun Yoon, 1979