Coming, going—
a dot appears, a dot dissolves.
No circle—
only breath:
expansion, contraction.

A point.
An ending that begins again.

We ride a bullet train
toward a broken span,
the ravine waiting—
history an arrow loosed,
beyond recall,
cutting air
toward the unseen floor.

Revolution.
Rock bottom struck.
The sound of awakening.

How do we travel light
against gravity
and still rise?

Yesterday is no burden.
It combusts—
compressed spark,
velocity kept in silence.

Donghak.
March First.
April Nineteenth.
May Eighteenth.
December Third.

Minnesota—names and winter dates.
Sirens in February.
Distant thunder of bombs.

When bridges fail
and noise collapses,
what remains

is the dot—

small,
steady,
unextinguished—

a seed of a greater world,
where all belong,
where the people are kept,
where tyranny thins
and the broken are lifted.

— TaeHun Yoon, 3/1/2026