by TaeHun yoon

(During Korea’s military regime, upon completing my studies at Seoul Methodist Seminary.)

At last, after so long—
perhaps for the very first time,
my voice must rise,
my heart must speak.

So I opened the narrow door
of a quiet, box-shaped room,
and stepped within.

There, between thundered fields
and trees older than sorrow,
my dreams lie resting—
woven by my own hands,
gathered in a small box,
still tender as new green shoots.

The past winter was strangely warm;
fuel-sellers sighed,
skating rinks emptied,
and the world wore a frown.

But one gray day,
as I crossed the Han River by bus,
winter returned—
a true, stern winter.
It pressed its heavy hand
upon the hope of yellow leaves
that trembled by the river’s edge.

The box shrank,
a pitiful thing.
Within, the dreams protested,
yet they could not prevail—
not for lack of youth,
but because they had
become young again.

And such youth,
so tender, so frail,
is a fragile force
before the eternal.
This moment,
this fleeting now,
grew into a story
told only after
long years had passed.

Now the leaves,
that never bore seed,
have fallen and withered.
Life fades,
and I ask:
what remains within?

Ah…
will spring come again?.

I press my crumpled dreams
between the pages of books,
with gentle, reverent hands.
And I wait—
wait for a few steadfast trees
to gather their sap,
to endure,
to rise beyond the winter.

And we shall gather—
not to mourn,
but only to smile.

[Beginning Series – Part 6]

• Original text written in Korean.

© TaeHun Yoon, February 1973