© TaeHun Yoon, 1977, then 2025

When a star leans its face upon the pillow,
the clocks forget their duty—
time rests, breathing softly in the dark.

Behind the fragile glass of being,
light and shadow fold into each other
like two hands learning how to pray.

Hunger is not a shame,
nor love a wound—
but the trembling proof
that we are still alive.

The old woman, her last tooth a pearl of laughter,
smiles into the wind.
Straws whirl and settle on her shoulders
like blessings of forgotten angels,
and she whispers—
“May the earth bear fruit again.”

Even where the flesh swells
and beetles hum their dark hymns,
life presses on—
singing beneath decay,
singing of return.

Two crows draw a circle in the blue air,
guardians of all that passes.
And when the sky closes,
a new name of God begins—
born from the silence between our hearts.

Light climbs the trees,
then slips away,
leaving only the pulse of love—
the only dignity we own.

[Sing, even if no one listens.]
[Love, for that is your prayer.]