Someone once said
we are trains
rushing headlong toward death.

Someone said
we eat only to survive—
fuel for a failing engine.

Someone once said
sorrow is our native tongue,
that you and I
amount to almost nothing.

Someone once said
our hands are empty—
nothing to offer,
nothing to leave behind.

But listen.

Before any of those voices,
we were born into goodness—
into laughter,
into the bright astonishment of being.
We were called precious
before we knew the word for it.

Open your eyes.

Look at the colors ripened by our labor—
orchards of effort,
small shining stones of love
resting in our palms.

Even now
what we have outweighs what we lack.
There are more cups waiting to be filled
with hope
than cups cracked by despair.

The hours move swiftly—
too swiftly
to squander on hatred,
to dwell long in loneliness.

One day we will understand.
When we arrive
at the last station,
we may finally see
why we were asked
to stay as long as we did.

— WanHee Yoon
February 29, 2004