Beneath the watchful mountains
an old tall ship moves slowly,
its sails catching a patient wind
that knows no hurry.
The hull creaks in quiet remembrance,
each sound a story released
back into the sea.
Peaks rise like still thoughts,
unchanged by the passing wake,
their reflections folding gently
into the water below.
No destination calls,
no compass insists—
only the steady breath of canvas
and the vast calm of stone and sky.
In this drifting moment,
ship and mountain meet,
and the journey becomes
nothing more
than being carried.
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