Misty morning settles in the mountains,
a pale hush smoothing every edge.
Pines fade into the whiteness,
their branches half-remembered,
half-dreamed.
On a ridge sits the silent temple,
roof tiles beaded with cloud,
wood breathing slowly
in the cool damp air.
No bell rings,
no monk chants,
no incense curls upward—
yet nothing is missing.
The temple does not seek visitors,
nor fear abandonment.
Its beams rest easy,
its halls at peace
with the simple fact of being.
Mist thickens,
mountains vanish,
the world unspools into quiet.
Still the temple remains—
content in its solitude,
whole without witness,
a single breath
held gently in the dawn.
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