At dusk,I sit beneath a quiet sky,
my thoughts as still as any weathered stone.
No sound but wind,no ripple in the water-
just breath,the weight of stillness in my hand.
The world withdraws into a deeper silence,
and I begin to follow its old path.

There is no map to mark this kind of path,
no signs etched into the open sky,
only the hush,the gentle pull of silence
that settles heavy as a resting stone.
It gathers in the lines upon my hand,
as memory flows soft as moving water.

I do not fear the voice within the water,
though time may blur its edges on the path.
I've learned to read the quiet in my hand,
to see what waits beyond the shifting sky,
to trust the truth that sleeps inside a stone,
to hear what's never spoken in the silence.

Because there's music,even in silence-
the hum of leaves,the breath of deep water.
Even the weight and coldness of a stone
has stories pressed within it from the path
of centuries beneath a weeping sky,
stories too large to hold within one hand.

So here I stay,with earth cupped in my hand,
grateful for the language of silence,
the way it sings like birds against the sky,
the way it cools and deepens like water.
I do not need to question where this path
may lead,nor ask the meaning of the stone.

For peace is not a shrine carved out of stone
nor something I must capture in my hand.
It lives beside me,steady on the path,
a quiet shape inside a field of silence,
as natural as light on moving water,
as patient as the slowly turning sky.

And so I walk beneath the open sky,
with silence, with water,with a stone in my hand-
at peace,
and part of the never-ending path.