Late in the seventies,

down in Busan, that wind-bitten port,

in a narrow coffee shop off Gwangbok-dong,

Thursdays, about five—

when the light thinned

and the harbor began clearing its throat.

Seven of us gathered,

pockets nearly empty,

hands ink-stained,

bringing whatever the week had wrestled

out of skull and rib.

We read the streets, the headlines, the factory smoke and fish smell.

We leaned in close

to hear history

trying to pronounce itself.

Then,

one by one,

we turned the small globe burning inside the chest

and offered a single line—

no more than that—

as if setting down a cup

that might crack.

There was trust, at least.

A thin, breakable faith.

A courtesy in our criticisms

we did not yet have the language to bless.

We weren’t hunting fame.

We were practicing balance—

learning how to walk upright

through a tilted world.

Each poem

a foothold,

a palm against stone,

a transparency where truth

let beauty pass through it.

Together

we climbed,

not knowing the name of the summit,

only that the air felt cleaner

the higher we dared.

The road was ordinary.

The weather was mad.

Still—

somewhere above us

a bird kept flying.

And sometimes

we knelt,

not from defeat,

but to ask forgiveness

of the silence

for breaking it.

— Tae Hun Yoon