The mist—
descending first upon the head,
then lingering
about the instep—

a circling presence
without intention.

And in the falling of droplets
from that uncertain air,
a road—
or the suggestion of a road—
appeared.

Not chosen,
not refused,

but waiting
at the place of division.

A fork—

and in the pupil
of a dampened morning,
a sadness without history,

I saw—
if seeing it was—
a figure diminished,

a self reduced
to something less than name,
less than memory,

standing
and not standing.

Then the mist grew thicker—
as though knowledge itself
had drawn a veil
over what was almost known.

Time passed—
or failed to pass.

And afterward
(I cannot say when)

I went again
in search of that same wooded way,
where one might arrive
at the edge of oneself

and hesitate.

— TaeHun Yoon, 1969