Where mist embraces mountains, pale and still,
The clouds drift slowly past the silent hill.
A bamboo flute awakens through the air,
Its tender voice dissolves into the prayer.
The waters hold the mountains in their sleep,
While hidden valleys breathe beneath the deep.
A lonely boat moves softly through the blue,
As though the world has disappeared from view.
The bamboo bends beside the quiet shore,
The distant birds are heard, then heard no more.
One wandering soul beneath the heavens wide
Lets every restless thought dissolve with tide.
The flute speaks softly, and the mountains hear,
A sound so far away, yet strangely near.
No words are needed where the waters flow,
The heart understands what the winds already know.
And when the evening settles on the lake,
The clouds grow still, the trembling waters wake.
Between the earth below and endless sky,
The music teaches restless hearts to fly.
So let the flute wander where the blue mists gleam,
Let mountains fade gently into dream.
For in this quiet world, untouched by pain,
The soul finds peace, and loses its name again.