Everyone struggles to seize the wind

One day,
in the place named seven thousand, nine hundred seventy-one,
a wind rose from the skin.

It clouded my eyes
with a frail comfort,
with the tale of alignment—
as it came,
as it returned.

In the courtyard of the pasqueflower,
the wind cut my hand,
lifting it skyward.

A wind born of the skin—
yet still, everyone fights,
wounded,
to hold it fast.

[Wind Series – theme]

© TaeHun Yoon, 1970

• Note:7971 implies 21 years old.