© TaeHun yoon, 1997 then 2025

From the far side—
a red gourd drifts,
slowly, slowly drawing near.

His face—
pale with fear—
rises toward that trembling light.

Above, the steps of air
move closer,
each footfall a sound
from somewhere between meaning and silence.

Letters—
souls screaming,
choked in the black bars of a prison.

Yet between the letters,
between the lines,
in the white margins of the page—
breath.
Freedom breathes.

Since childhood,
he had suffered hunger.
Now the old fisherman lifts his body,
and with a spoon
stirs the soup—
slowly,
as if stirring the sea,
or a memory set free.