Without Hurry

In a quiet pond

a lotus opens slowly,

petal by petal

to the patient sun.

On the distant shore

sand slips through unseen fingers,

grain after grain

falling without hurry.

The lotus does not count the moments.

The sand does not mourn their passing.

Bloom and falling,

opening and fading—

two gestures of the same hand.

Petals will loosen.

Grains will gather again.

Time moves,

stillness remains.

And in the calm water

the lotus simply flowers,

while the sands of time

continue their silent bow.