The still lake shimmers,
holding the sky in silence,
a mirror of thought—
clouds drift, yet the water knows
all things pass and come again.
A single leaf falls,
spiraling toward the surface,
a quiet ripple—
even the smallest movement
awakens the endless deep.
The mountain waits tall,
unchanged by the fleeting years,
yet in each season
it sheds what no longer stays,
becoming itself anew.
Footsteps in soft sand
vanish beneath the high tide,
never returning—
yet the ocean holds no loss,
only the promise of waves.
Night bows to sunrise,
darkness yielding without fear,
all things will unfold—
to see is not to grasp tight,
but to welcome what may be.
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