May 18 arrives
carrying both fire and flowers.

History opens its old wounds
on this day.

A mountain exploded once—
Mount St. Helens
tearing open the American sky,
ash falling like gray snow
upon forests, rivers, and homes.

The earth itself
could no longer remain silent.

And once,
Napoleon lifted a crown
toward his own head,
declaring himself emperor
while Europe trembled beneath ambition.

Power always believes
it can outlive time.

On another May 18,
a tall sorrowful lawyer
named Abraham Lincoln
stepped quietly toward destiny,
toward a divided nation
already smelling of war.

Some men inherit crowns.
Some inherit wounds.

And long before them,
boats crossed cold waters
carrying frightened loyalists
toward the forests of Canada,
searching simply
for a place to survive history.

Meanwhile,
Halley’s Comet passed overhead,
a burning question
moving through darkness.

People looked upward in fear,
as though heaven itself
were writing warnings in fire.

Yet among all the memories
held by May 18,
one wound still bleeds deeply
inside the Korean soul.

Gwangju.

The city where students
walked into the streets
carrying only their voices.

Young faces lifted
against martial law.
Against fear.
Against silence forced by rifles.

Mothers waited at windows.
Fathers searched hospitals.
Brothers disappeared
between gunfire and smoke.

The streets filled
with cries for democracy,
and the military answered
with bullets.

Blood touched the pavement
where spring flowers should have fallen.

Official numbers counted the dead.
But grief cannot be counted.

And still,
the people did not entirely surrender.

Taxi drivers carried the wounded.
Strangers shared rice and water.
Citizens held one another
beneath curfews and helicopters.

Even in terror,
human compassion refused to die.

Perhaps this is why
May 18 continues breathing
through history.

Because volcanoes erupt.
Empires rise.
Governments silence voices.
Comets pass through the night.

Yet ordinary people
still stand for dignity.

Still light candles.

Still gather in public squares
with trembling hands.

Still believe
that freedom is worth suffering for.

And somewhere tonight,
the souls of Gwangju
walk quietly among us—

not asking for revenge,
but remembrance.

Not demanding hatred,
but courage.

For democracy is fragile
like spring blossoms in hard wind.

And peace survives
only when human beings
refuse to forget one another.

— TaeHun Yoon, May 18, 2026