Rain softens the empty town at dusk,
each drop returning stone to silence.
A lone geisha walks the narrow street,
her steps unhurried,
her reflection dissolving in puddles.
She does not walk to arrive.
She does not walk to be seen.
Umbrella, rain, cobblestone—
no edge between them.
Lantern light flickers,
then fades into the wet air.
The town holds no audience,
and she holds no role.
In this quiet crossing,
there is no “I” and no “world,”
only movement moving,
rain raining,
being being itself.
True freedom passes here—
not as choice or escape,
but as the gentle release
of becoming anything else.
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