A poem is just
telling things
the way they are.

The flow of thought—
and thought
inside the flow.

When I was young,
going into houses
where old people lived,
I felt uneasy.
So much disorder,
so much clutter.

Now that I live that way myself,
life feels surprisingly easy.
Everything is close at hand,
easy to see,
easy to find.

Then it occurs to me—
to others,
this must look
quite messy.

In the end,
the mind imagines,
and imagination holds the mind.

Ah—
the road to finding myself.
You have to walk it
a long way
before you meet the self
coming toward you,
ready to speak.

The language of thought,
the thought of language—
I follow both.

And there,
in a wrinkled world
holding its feelings,
I meet myself,
stained by time.

We blend,
and the dance we make—
whether in joy
or in sorrow—
remains beautiful
and clear.

— TaeHun Yoon