A lone path slips into the wind—
a road of the heart with no return.

Even the wind halts,
leaving only footprints
on that one and only way.

It becomes my mother’s voice,
calling me from far away.

What rises like a boat
rides the curve of a fishing line—
a sleep that cannot be caught.

The fisherman wandered
for five thousand years
just like that.

What rises without sound
is always alone,
in the grave that is mine,
where sound becomes wind.

[Wind Series – Last Part]

© TaeHun Yoon, in Autumn, 1970