The path…
neither its beginning is seen, nor its end.
Like a thin thread released from God’s hand,
carried away by the wind.
Each turn has its own scent;
sometimes the smell of fresh bread,
sometimes the scent of wet earth.
I have long known there is no true destination—
only places to sit,
to listen to the river’s voice,
and to watch how the moon
shatters itself upon the water.
Sometimes you must let go
of the oar, the boat,
and surrender to the current.
But do not let go of one thing:
do not let go of the question —
“Does this river ever reach the sea?”
Perhaps life… is nothing more than this.
