As the sun kisses the silent lake, its secret breath prepares the dance of droplets. Do they know their journey—sky to earth, earth to sky?
Imagine the cry of the cloud-captured dew, yearning for solidity as it witnesses the mundane miracle. Is this incessant cycle a punishment or a poetic rhythm within the cosmos?
The vapor whispers: "Listen closely, for I am the echo of time. I have seen the birth of rivulets and the demise of torrents."
We, too, are fleeting forms, like steam on morning grass—woven into the tapestry of transient moments. Can we understand this recourse as freedom?
Reflecting Silence