Passing Through Eternity

On the mist-covered hillside

the ancient tree stands—

gnarled, immense,

older than memory,

older than names.

Its branches reach into fog,

vanishing like thoughts

that never needed to be spoken.

The colors of the world grow quiet here—

soft greys, muted golds,

the hush before a deeper silence.

A lone figure approaches,

small against the vastness,

a silhouette walking toward the setting sun.

No path guides them,

no purpose presses their steps—

only the gentle pull of light

and the tree’s patient witnessing.

In this moment

time loosens its grip,

the world exhales,

and all things—

tree, mist, sun, traveler—

are simply one breath

passing through eternity.