Drip, drip,
pressing me down
an inch at a time
onto the earthen floor.

Life that begins in soil
climbs its stems,
rides the blazing sun
through leaf and branch,
and rises.

When it gathers,
grows heavy,
it descends again
to nameless leaves,
hiding in the soil,
passing its seasons
like a breath,
until it rises once more
through roots,
through mist,
through spring water.

Lying in my small tent,
I feel the red handful
that has returned to the soil below.

Deep in the forest
is the depth of night.
This is how I became friends with the earth:
above the clouds, below the soil,
searching for God.

In the end,
what is strong
will endure
through gentleness.

—Yoon Tae-Hun, August 17, 1998