Beyond the temple walls,
the world shouts—
machines wail,
dreams burn like paper in the wind.
But here, beneath a crooked pine,
silence has roots.
The moss knows no hurry,
the breeze no argument.
The temple door is closed,
no monk, no prayer,
only the scent of rain
and the slow turning of clouds.
Peace is not inside or out—
it waits where the noise cannot reach,
where a leaf falls, unseen,
and the whole world bows with it.
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