Beyond the noise of hurried worlds,
where roads surrender to moss and stone,
a narrow path disappears
into a forest of bamboo.
No one waits there.
No temple demands belief.
No gate asks for a name.
The mountain has forgotten such things.
Morning mist drifts between the emerald stalks,
never wondering where it belongs.
It borrows the valleys for a while,
then quietly becomes the sky.
The bamboo bends before every wind,
yet never argues with the storm.
It keeps no record of yesterday's rain,
nor does it fear tomorrow's sun.
Higher still, the mountain watches—
its ancient face softened by cloud,
its silence older than language,
its patience deeper than time.
A solitary bird crosses the white mist,
leaving no trail behind.
Freedom has never needed footprints.
The stream sings to polished stones,
asking nothing in return.
The stones answer by simply remaining,
and somehow that is enough.
Sit here long enough,
and the mind begins to resemble the forest.
Thoughts become passing clouds.
Memories become falling leaves.
The wind carries away opinions
as easily as it carries bamboo leaves.
What remains cannot be taken,
for it was never owned.
The mountain does not seek enlightenment.
The bamboo does not chase wisdom.
The mist never tries to become pure.
Only people imagine
they must become something else.
The forest smiles without lips.
The mountain bows without moving.
The sky embraces everything
while holding on to nothing.
Walk the winding path without destination.
Let each step arrive where it already is.
The journey was never through the bamboo—
It was through the walls
you quietly built within yourself.
When the last thought settles
like dew upon a single leaf,
there is only wind,
only mountain,
only mist,
and a freedom so vast
that even the sky
cannot contain it.
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