Above the mountains,
where the clouds drift softly
between heaven and earth,
there is a place
where nothing needs to be hurried.
Tranquil blue waters
stretch beneath a silver sky,
so still they hold the clouds
without disturbing their reflection.
No road leads here.
No sign points the way.
The wind knows the path,
and the moon waits patiently
for those who have forgotten
where they were going.
Tonight she rises gently,
round and luminous,
an inviting lantern in the darkness.
She does not call.
She does not ask.
She simply shines.
And somehow
that is enough.
A small boat rests upon the water,
floating between the reflection
of the moon above
and the silence below.
There is nowhere to arrive.
The mountains breathe beneath their mist.
The waters breathe beneath the moon.
The clouds wander freely,
never asking permission from the sky.
Sit quietly beside the shore
and listen.
The world you carried with you
begins to disappear.
Names become clouds.
Worries become ripples.
Yesterday becomes mist
dissolving among the mountains.
For a moment,
the mind becomes as spacious as heaven.
Nothing to possess.
Nothing to prove.
Nothing to become.
Only the blue water,
the drifting clouds,
the ancient mountains,
and the moon
waiting like an old friend.
Perhaps paradise
was never somewhere beyond the clouds.
Perhaps it was always here—
hidden beneath the noise,
waiting quietly
for you
to become still.
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