Beneath the flowering tree
petals fall without a sound—
yet the monk hears them.
Winter rests on the mountain,
moonlight spilling over its quiet bones,
a silver breath upon the world.
Eyes closed,
he watches more clearly than sight allows.
A bird calls once—
the echo lingers longer
in the space he has emptied.
Where vision ends,
listening begins.
Where seeking fades,
the world speaks.
Petal by petal,
the night becomes audible.
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