The universe keeps its own rhythm—
a pulse older than breath,
soft as a forgotten song.
At dusk, the Geisha steps into the empty village,
her footsteps falling like gentle percussion
on the worn wooden path.
Cherry blossoms drift around her,
petals swirling in time
with a music only silence knows.
No lantern glows,
no voice calls her name—
yet the whole world moves with her,
each motion a note,
each pause a prayer.
In this quiet dance
between evening and night,
she becomes part of the rhythm,
and the rhythm becomes her—
two motions,
one unfolding.
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