When time lapses
into a single, boundless silence,
a moment stretches—
infinite, edgeless, untethered,
where the microcosm cradles
the vastness of the macrocosm.

I find myself wondering:
are the small, smooth, polished
stones and pebbles—
those treasures I once held dear—
now so weightless in their worth
that I would scatter them
in a child's game,
tossing them lightly
across the stream?

Each stone skips,
dancing over the surface,
leaving ripples—
concentric whispers of motion—
that falter and fade
before they ever
reach the opposite shore.

Much like those ripples,
our illusions shimmer briefly,
shaping and unshaping themselves,
only to vanish into stillness,
their weight forgotten
in the quiet of the stream.

And so I ask:
is this not the nature of time,
of treasures, of dreams?
To shimmer, to ripple,
to remind us of their fragility,
before dissolving
into the eternal,
boundless silence?

Perhaps, in truth,
it is not the ripples we create,
nor the stones we cast,
but the stream itself—
unchanging, infinite,
bearing all things gently—
that reveals
what truly endures
I am a river
without beginning,
without end.

MyKoul