© TaeHun Yoon, 1997, then 2025

The bell breathes softly—
as if its sound were born
from the lungs of the stars.

Night folds its hands
around the slow pulse of things,
and I, too, am gathered into stillness.

A yellow lizard rests at the doorway,
its silence more radiant than the moon.
The old woman’s hands tremble,
laying sorrow like offerings upon the fire.

O heart, learn from her—
to burn without anger,
to shine without demand.

Even in weariness,
the world whispers: rise gently.
Joy waits not in pursuit,
but in the quiet consent of being.

Dream tenderly,
for every awakening is another birth.