past is there none such beauty as the peace which one left behind,
after the stories are over, and the tales are done,
there is the end, and the silence of stillness.

finally there is calm again, and all things go about their ways,
and to those who have seen, there is nothing more
but to be welcomed by nothing itself,
in a darkened space, where the weary can rest in safety.

where there is none to be done
where one is all alone in solitude
where that which is not you becomes part of you,
and quiet, sleep.

there is a land far away, yet very near;-
here, where the ants move quickly over the mossed rocks.
there, passing the pebbles of the stone path in echo-under

bathing in one's memories; thoughts drifting through empty spaces,
bathing in the crystal airs, moist vapours condensing upon the cool stones' face
standing still, wondering around from here to there.