July 4, 1977

© TaeHun Yoon

In the night that refuses order, the telephone rings—
a trembling heart breaks through the city’s dark.

Tears of the evicted sink beneath towers,
and in the silence underground, a miner’s lunchbox opens.

Cars race smartly, golf clubs swing.
They told us democracy meant the people rule,
yet the words still scatter across the streets.

The wound of division is carved across our years,
while beneath the shadow of foreign capital
we have been gently tamed.

But—we do not forget:
the cries of April 19,
the voices of youth,
the breath of freedom pressed down.

Even when the South Sea is poisoned,
a vessel of hope floats again upon its waters.

In a world where a word can bring a blow,
a whisper, a prison—
still, we carry one another in our hearts.

Alone, we cannot stand.
So we join hands,
emptying ourselves to find our neighbor in suffering—
this is the mind of Jesus,
the true shape of love.

As long as our nation bears its pain,
to rise together—though stained—
is worth more than standing clean, alone.

Listen—
the abandoned heart beats once more.
In the groan of a people,
hope rekindles as a fragile flame.