The earth—
a head lifted toward heaven,
raising open hands,
not to confuse,
but to pray.

Before the fallen Tower of Babel,
where words once shattered,
a new language of grace
begins to rise.

And still—
with the long thread of its story,
it does not stumble,
it dances in hope.

From the homeland of wings,
a single song
is placed upon an angel,
and as I follow it,
I am lifted—
not by a hook of sorrow,
but by my Father’s hand.

Thus, morning awakens,
not scraping hooves,
but washing the earth in light;
and the sun opens the eyes of evening
like a gentle flame of promise.

[Myŏng-dong], though soaked in rain,
sings through its tears;
and in the gaze of the weary,
the smoke of prayer rises,
and they, too, become angels.

Stars fall into a basket of mercy;
I stir them like seeds of tomorrow,
calling, calling,
as I follow the figure of grace
walking before me.

[Wind Series – Part 8]

• [Myŏng-dong] is the center in Seoul with fashion, music, and stocks.
• The original text written in Korean.
• 
  © TaeHun Yoon, 1970