Second Verse of Life

Toward Boquete, After Seventy I unburden the clock of hurry and noise, let each minute breathe like high-mountain air. Morning mist lifts, revealing feathered coffee trees; hummingbirds stitch silence with emerald thread. I walk the cloud-kissed ridge, bones loosened by warmth and wind. The town below murmurs in Spanish vowels, soft as river stones turning in Caldera’s flow. Evening burns orange over Volcán Barú, and I taste the sun’s last zest in a cup of cacao. If this gentle valley is my final stanza, let its quiet rhyme my closing line. Explanation The poem adopts first-person reflection to capture a serene retirement in Boquete. Time becomes “the clock of hurry and noise” that the speaker willingly abandons, signaling a shift from busyness to deliberate living. Vivid natural images—cloud forest air, coffee trees, hummingbirds—establish Boquete’s lush setting and evoke sensory calm. Spanish words (“Caldera,” “Volcán Barú”) ground the scene culturally, hin...

The Hand That Lifts Beneath a pallid sky my cadence faltered, knees thudding on the cracked and silent earth. City clang ripped ribbons through my spirit, and at the dead-end of a road I built, I reeled. Yet a tender hand swept cinders from my shoulders, coaxed the trembling wick within my chest to blaze. Like living water on a desert tongue, Your breath revived the caverns of my soul. At the crossroads where signs fade into shadow, I paced unsure, afraid to choose the way. Then Your voice—steady as an ancient star— walked ahead, etching the truest path in light. Not for my merit, nor despite my frailty, but for the vow inscribed upon Your name, You raise me yet again this very morning and pour green pastures straight across my steps. Commentary  I open the poem in a barren landscape—an ashen sky and cracked earth—to mirror those moments when I feel utterly spent. The “dead-end of a road I built” confesses that my own choices sometimes leave me cornered, and...

Wellspring of Dawnfire When the hush of night unthreads its veil, a quiet ember lifts the edge of earth. Amber whispers gather on the fields, cupping every blade in molten birth. Stone walls blush beneath the timid blaze; sleep-worn rivers tremble into gold. Birdsong climbs the newly burnished air, finding notes no lantern ever told. I stand within this widening circle, skin awash in pulses of the light, and feel the secret furnace in my chest strike its flint against the fading night. Where shadows once rehearsed defeat, a lucid warmth assembles wings. It teaches tired bones to rise— to pour themselves into unfurling things. Commentary  The poem traces a passage from pre-dawn silence into full illumination. Night “unthreads its veil,” suggesting withdrawal rather than abrupt banishment, while “a quiet ember” hints at the first, understated glow of morning. As that glow amplifies—“cupping every blade in molten birth”—the landscape becomes a vessel of renewal. The...

Commit Your Way In the hush before the dawn, I placed my plans upon the flame, Ashes rising, dreams withdrawn— yet not in loss, but in new name. For what is mine, if not from You? The hands that build, the breath I take— Still every hour, fresh and true, my heart learns what it means to break. But break not into ruin's dust— It breaks to bloom, it bends to grow. So I entrust with patient trust each path to One who walks below. No toil is vain that rests in Light, No step is lost that leans on grace. I give You all—my wrong, my right— and You will build in secret place. Poem Commentary This poem calmly contemplates the anxiety that lies dormant within the human heart and the limits of self-will, rendering—through metaphor—the process of elevating them into a sense of transcendence. The stillness before dawn marks a moment of confronting the unknown, while “laying one’s plans upon the flame” symbolizes the decision to relinquish control and step into mystery. The...

Paths of Quiet Light I walk where no road is drawn, blind to the ridges of night. A whisper steadies my steps, smoothing the jagged unknown. Shadows thin into silver, rough ground rests under my feet. Each breath catches a new dawn— soft with the promise of sight. No silence is left unanswered; no turning left unattended. The hand that unknots the dark never loosens its hold on me. Explanation The poem imagines a traveler who cannot see the path ahead yet senses a constant, gentle guide. Darkness softens into “silver,” suggesting hope breaking through fear. Rough places become level ground, symbolizing obstacles turning into opportunities. The final two lines affirm unwavering care—protection that never withdraws. Overall, the verse paints quiet confidence: even in blindness, a steadfast presence reshapes every step into light. 고요한 빛의 길 그려지지 않은 길을 걷습니다 밤의 능선을 보지 못한 채. 속삭임이 걸음을 붙잡아 거친 미지의 땅을 매만집니다. 그림자는 은빛으로 옅어지고 거친 땅은 발아래 잠잠해집니다. 숨마다 새벽을 품어 시선 약속으로 부드럽습니다. 어떤 ...

Paths of Quiet Promise You unfold the map within my chest, inked in silver hush and morning blue. Each turn whispers where mercy leads, each marker lit by a patient star. I walk the unseen roadway’s pulse, heels drumming questions into dust. Your breath is compass—steady, warm— it teaches earth to sing of North. So I rest inside the moving light, learning the long grammar of trust, holding the hush between heartbeats until the horizon answers home . Explanation I imagine a traveler who carries an inner map drawn by a benevolent guide. The “map within my chest” suggests that guidance is internalized rather than imposed from outside. Silver hush and morning blue evoke dawn—the moment between night’s uncertainty and day’s clarity. Every “turn” and “marker” echoes gentle direction rather than coercion; mercy, patience, and light frame the journey. The second stanza shifts to motion: even while questions rise (“heels drumming questions into dust”), the traveler senses a livi...

  Unshaken I stand where night has gathered all its fears, yet stars slip silver courage through the dark. My breath recalls the promise in the wind— no blade of dread can sever trust from heart. I walk the valley where men’s shadows loom, their threats a thunder beating in my ears; but in the hush behind each quake of doom a deeper pulse of steadfast hope appears. So let the ground convulse with human rage; my soul is moored to quiet, unseen light. No mortal storm can breach this hidden stage where love, not fear, decides the terms of night. Explanation In these lines I speak from a place of tested confidence. The setting moves from night’s intimidation to an inner anchoring beyond external turmoil. Human threats are recognised—thunder, blades, convulsing ground—yet they remain powerless against a trust rooted in something larger than mortality. The “unseen light” represents a constant, benevolent presence that reframes danger and grants freedom from fear. Throughou...

  Kept in the Flame In the hush between thunder and dawn I place my trembling promise into hands that forged the galaxies. No storm can unlearn that grip— its scars outshine every debt of fear. Years unravel, fragile as thread, yet the ember You breathed stays lit beneath the ash. What I have given is kept, and what is kept becomes me— a song ironed into eternity. Poem Commentary (English) The poem explores unwavering trust amid uncertainty. The speaker offers a “trembling promise” to an unseen Keeper whose grasp shaped the cosmos—an echo of absolute sovereignty and care. Storms (adversities) may rage, but they cannot “unlearn that grip,” highlighting security beyond circumstance. Time’s erosion (“years unravel”) contrasts with the enduring ember—an inner faith kindled by the Keeper. Ultimately, what the speaker entrusts is preserved, and that very preservation reshapes identity, forging a timeless testimony (“a song ironed into eternity”). 영시 번역 (Korean Translation...

  Freedom’s Tide in Acapulco On the sun-cracked cliffs of Acapulco we built a campfire of pure intention, sparks rising like rebel prayers against a velvet-blue Mexican sky. We sang of cashless dawns and borderless tomorrows, of guns melted into garden tools, of children trading fear for laughter while stateless waves applauded the shore. Yet midnight crept in heavy boots: the sweet-talk of silver, the quick flare of anger, desire’s teeth gleaming beneath handshake smiles. Our circle frayed— not by tyrants in uniform, but by the tyrant we each keep leashed inside. Still, beyond the fractures and unfinished songs, a lone lighthouse blades through salt-dark air— a promise that freedom, though never finally ours, remains the compass star burning above every restless heart. Commentary  This poem dramatizes the rise and unraveling of the “Anarchapulco” experiment. The opening stanzas paint a hopeful scene: activists gathered on Acapulco’s cliffs, envisioning ...

  The Garden That Refuses Winter In silver-flecked dawnlight I open a page, Numbers march in ordered rows, vowels hum beside. Each whisper of algebra bends a stubborn synapse, Each foreign syllable flares like morning sparrows. I trace forgotten characters with pulse-steady hands, Let memory braid fresh ladders across quiet ravines. Here, the mind is a garden that refuses winter— Rooted in sums, warmed by verbs, watered by verse. So age discovers its own spring: A cool head brimming, A heart that counts and conjures, Forever naming the world anew. Poem Insight The poem pictures late-life study as an early-morning ritual. “Numbers march in ordered rows” evokes math’s logical patterns, while “vowels hum beside” brings in language learning. These disparate symbols awaken dormant neural “ravines,” suggesting neuroplasticity. By calling the mind “a garden that refuses winter,” the poem frames continuous study as resistance against cognitive decline. The closing lines t...