Conscience is a fire underground.
No law can smother it.

Beneath this Smoky Mountain clay—
two feet, no more—
a mountain waits.

Easter draws near,
not with trumpets
but with a gathering weight.

Passion will press through the soil.
Stone will loosen its hold.
What was hidden
will learn again
how to breathe.

And the old mountain song,
long kept quiet,
will rise once more—

the same tune,
yet deeper,
carried farther
on the wind.

by TaeHun Yoon
3/5/2026