Among the Ruins

A lone monk crossed beneath

the giant arch of an ancient temple,

its weathered stones leaning gently

toward the earth that had carried them

for a thousand silent years.

No banners remained.

No prayers echoed from its halls.

The names of those who built it

had long since dissolved into dust,

their footsteps returned

to the wind.

Vines traced forgotten scriptures

across broken walls.

Moss clothed shattered pillars

more faithfully than marble ever had.

The temple had not fallen.

It had simply continued.

The monk paused beneath the arch.

Above him, a single crack reached skyward,

where a small pine had rooted itself

between impossible stones.

It asked no permission to grow.

It simply did.

He smiled.

Empires had sought permanence.

The pine sought only sunlight.

A breeze wandered through the empty gate,

ringing a bronze bell

that no hand had touched for years.

Its lonely note drifted

into the valley below,

not caring

whether anyone heard it.

The monk stepped forward.

One foot.

Then another.

There was nowhere to arrive.

The arch was not an entrance.

Nor was it an exit.

It was simply a place

where one step became the next.

Clouds passed overhead.

Shadows crossed the ancient stones.

A leaf settled softly upon the path.

The monk did not wonder

who had built the temple.

He did not wonder

why it had crumbled.

He did not mourn

what time had carried away.

The stones had become the mountain.

The mountain had become the sky.

And he, for one quiet moment,

became no different.

When evening gathered among the ruins,

the old arch remained standing,

not because it resisted time,

but because it had long ago

stopped arguing with it.

The monk disappeared beyond the temple.

The wind remained.

The pine remained.

The silence remained.

And the ancient arch continued

to frame an emptiness

that had always been full.