Caught in shadow’s grip—
between the trembling sky and silent earth,
a fading streak of sunset
seemed to lose its breath.

But wind rose,
not to scatter me,
but to carve a doorway in the storm—
a clear, courageous passage
where I might leap
beyond the prison of hours.

Thus, despair turned gentle.

Beneath the bridge,
a child’s soft murmur—
not warning, but promise:
that even when we stumble,
rising will return.

At the seashore,
where countless bodies rested,
a voice remained:
“If judgment comes,
yet love is stronger,
there will be room to stand.”

Within the womb,
a girl unborn—
within me,
an emptiness,
yet spilling with hope.

Eliot’s silence,
broken—
always, open it!

Outside the morning gate,
stones still echo ancient cries,
yet in the distance,
light unfolds—
the illusions fade,
and hope begins to sing.

(Wind Series – Part 4)

© TaeHun Yoon, Early Autumn 1969