The elderly monk sits beneath the open night,
robes gathered like folded constellations.
His breath rises slowly,
a small, warm cloud in the cold air—
yet it drifts as freely
as any comet.
Above him, planets trace their patient arcs,
stars shimmer with ancient clarity,
light taking its time
to reach his waiting eyes.
He does not try to hold them,
nor miss what has already passed.
To age is to watch the universe
without insisting it be otherwise.
Wrinkles deepen like riverbeds,
each one a quiet record
of storms and clear skies.
He bows to them,
as he bows to the moon.
In the stillness,
his mind unravels time.
Body and cosmos breathe together—
one pulse,
one vast unfolding.
The night continues.
The monk remains.
Nothing separates the star from the watcher,
nor the watcher from the star.
Only the gentle turning of ages,
perfectly aligned.
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