In the bamboo grove, no gate is found,
yet every stalk becomes a door.
Wind passes through with empty hands,
and leaves with nothing more.
Mist enters where the branches part,
borrowing shape from morning air.
It hides the path, reveals the path,
and asks no traveler there.
Beyond the veil, the mountain waits,
not hurrying stone or cloud.
Its silence towers over time,
though never once is loud.
A sparrow lands, then flies again,
the branch forgets the weight.
So too the mind that lets go soon
discovers it was late.
The bamboo bends to passing rain,
then straightens without pride.
What yields is not defeated there,
but open on each side.
The mist dissolves beneath the sun,
the mountain does not cling.
Both vanish in the watcher’s gaze
when no one names a thing.
Walk on through grove and silver breath,
climb where no footsteps start.
The tallest peak is entered first
by clearing out the heart.
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