A solitary peak stands against the twilight, Where clouds rest like weary travelers. An eagle circles the untouched snow, Witness to ages woven in stone. Below, a stream whispers ancient tales— Of monks who sought truth in solitude, Of poets who carved verses on bark, Now lost to the wind’s gentle sigh. Yet the mountain holds their echoes, In every crevice, every star-flecked night, A testament to stillness, And the wisdom of saying nothing at all.
