I fell into a love so deep,
it consumed me utterly in the night.
I, a woman once lost,
walked through shadows that no longer carried trees.
The night birds whispered on,
as the mountains opened their gates,
and from their trembling heart
poured forth the night wanderer—
then closed again.

Then the earth remembered its breath.
Time turned back to the mountains,
to the villages, to the silent groves
where all endings waited—
and returned to the place He had chosen,
where blood met love,
and silence became creation.

This narrow house,
this single bite of bread,
these few words I spoke in trembling—
how could they fill me so completely?

At the foot of the Cross I learned:
to lose all is to gain love entire.
He, the Source of Life,
abandoned even His own light,
that Love might rise undefeated.

The earth drank of His sorrow,
and from its wounds sprang blossoms.
The sky wept, but its tears became dawn.
In death, He gave us breath again.

Yes—night is our mother,
but Love is her victory.
Before the darkness ends,
Love has already won.
This is the meaning of man.
This is the meaning of God.

Note :

Night Wanderer speaks from the threshold between loss and revelation. It is a meditation on what remains when everything else is gone—when love, faith, and the self are stripped bare before the mystery of God.

In Mary Magdalene’s voice, the poem becomes both witness and prayer. Her wandering through the night mirrors the soul’s journey through absence, longing, and surrender. Yet within that darkness, a quiet triumph unfolds—the victory of love that arises not through strength, but through yielding.

The abandonment of the Source of Life is not despair, but the doorway into transformation. When all light is relinquished, a deeper illumination begins—one born of trust and intimacy with the divine.

In the end, Night Wanderer invites the reader to listen to the silence beneath the Cross, where grief becomes grace and where the mystery of God’s love is not explained, but revealed through presence.

© TaeHun Yoon, 1982