The Echo of the Unseen Roots

The sky held a pale, silver light,

As if the stars had left behind their shadows to dance with the dawn.

Down where the valley cradles the old oak, a silence breathes—

A silence not of absence, but of a thousand secrets kept by the soil.

The Ground’s Soft Whisper

It is a heavy, golden hum,

Where the amber leaves surrender to the mud,

Not as a death, but as a homecoming.

They lie there, weaving a tapestry of "Once Was,"

While the roots beneath—those stubborn, silent veins—

Drink from the chalice of the forgotten rain.

The Mirror of the Stream

Beside the stillness, a brook carves its path,

A frantic, liquid silver racing against a ghost.

It shatters the reflection of the mountain,

Yet, in its hurry, it misses the truth that the stone knows:

To stay is to become; to run is to fade.

The Great Awakening

We walk upon this "oneness,"

Our feet heavy with the noise of a thousand "Selfs,"

While the earth remains humble, unyielding, and vast.

It does not speak of its power,

It does not boast of the life it exhales into the lungs of the forest.

It simply is.

A soul buried in the sheath of the present,

Stripped of the illusions of "mine" and "thine,"

Finds that the only breath worth taking

Is the one shared with the rustling grass and the slumbering lake.

In that earthen sleep, the eyes finally open—

To a timelessness that doesn't wait for the clock,

But waits for the heart to listen.