[Written by ChatGPT]
—after Laozi
In silence things begin to grow,
Then turn again to rest below.
The blade, the bloom, the morning sun—
All rise, then fall, as one by one
They seek the root from which they came,
Unnamed, unchanged, forever same.
A life begins, the breath is drawn,
The infant cries, the dusk meets dawn.
Yet stillness waits beneath the flame—
Not death, but home, beyond all name.
To know this tide is wisdom’s start:
To yield, not grasp; to soften heart.
The empire too, with towers high,
Will crack beneath a shifting sky.
Its banners fade, its gold turns rust,
Its laws dissolve into the dust.
Yet in decay, a rhythm beats—
A quiet pulse the Dao repeats.
So rise, but know the way to bow.
So lead, but learn to bend somehow.
The root is deep, the branch is wide—
But only those who turn inside
And greet the fall as part of spring
Will hear the Dao in everything.
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