Two monks walked upon a wooden bridge,
Beneath them flowed a stream serene.
Their robes swayed soft in morning's breeze,
Each step a rhythm, calm, unseen.
The forest whispered of paths unknown,
Where choice and fate were seeds yet sown.
The bridge ahead began to part,
Two paths diverged, one east, one west.
One wound through hills of sunlit gold,
The other dark with shadow’s crest.
Each way a promise, joy or strife,
Both veiled in mystery, both teeming life.
The elder paused, his gaze held still,
His breath as deep as the mountain's root.
“To walk is all,” he softly said,
“No need to question the trail’s pursuit.
The path we choose is not the end,
But steps that teach, that break, that mend.”
The younger monk, with furrowed brow,
Glanced to the elder, seeking guide.
“But how to know which path to tread,
When both unknown and vast?” he sighed.
The elder smiled, his eyes aglow,
“Choose neither fear, nor haste to know.”
With hearts at peace, their feet began,
One path to tread, the other unseen.
The bridge behind a fleeting past,
The future not yet what it seemed.
Through sunlit hills or shadowed glade,
They carried truth no path could fade.
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