The Weaver’s Dao
The river does not strive to reach the sea,
It simply flows where hollows carve the way;
The mountain does not struggle to be free,
Yet holds the clouds within its peaks of gray.
We weave our nets to catch the passing wind,
And build our towers tall against the sky,
But lost is he who seeks to disciplined
The wordless truth that words can only lie.
Uncarved, the block contains a thousand shapes;
In stillness, all the moving parts are found.
The one who grasps is he from whom it 'scapes,
But he who yields is never truly bound.
The path is found by stepping soft and slow,
Through doing nothing, all things start to grow.
No comments:
Post a Comment