A monk sits within the clouds,
robes unmoving in the white vastness.
No ground beneath him,
no sky above—
only breath.
Mist drifts through his folded hands,
forms, dissolves,
forms again.
He does not grasp it.
Faith is not something held—
it is the stillness that remains
when nothing solid can be found.
Suspended between earth and emptiness,
he trusts the sitting itself,
the quiet weight of presence.
The clouds carry him,
or perhaps they do not.
Either way,
he does not fall.
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