Endless Going

A pilgrim sets out at first light,

no map, no name for the road.

Dust gathers on his feet

like quiet understanding.

The path bends through hills,

through villages that do not ask who he is.

He drinks from a stream,

and the stream keeps no record.

With each step,

the world opens—

not ahead,

but beneath him.

He meets an old tree,

twisted by wind,

still growing

without ever arriving.

At dusk, he wonders

where he is going.

The question falls away

like a leaf into water.

For when the journey becomes a destination,

the feet forget how to move.

The eyes no longer see the sky,

only the horizon they chase.

Better to walk

as the clouds drift—

never arriving,

never lost.

In the endless going,

there is breath,

there is life.

In the need to arrive,

the road ends—

and so does the traveler.