When breath frays at the edges of silence,
and the stage of the world trembles too high,
the hand drifts downward—
into the dim homeland of insects,
where forgotten songs hum beneath the earth.

O sun, inviolate flame!
Though the wind scatters the brittle leaves,
and darkness lingers,
playing at the toes of home,
still a whisper of radiance
threads the air like prayer.

O future not yet spoken,
yet already echoing!
Winter trees, austere and patient,
drink from the roots of waiting.
And beneath the soil’s closed eyelids,
insects stir—
faint heralds of what lies unseen.

Where the Beloved shall one day arrive,
the vigil must be renewed.
Though the roots are gnawed,
though houses collapse into husks,
the heart still remembers dawn,
a memory that cannot be unlearned.

Hands in the soil,
hands lifted toward the sky—
they fold not in resignation,
but in the secret posture of prayer.
For even where despair has made its dwelling,
beneath its shadow
the smallest seed of hope
begins to rise,
and the silence itself
leans forward to listen.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1970