§ 1

When a stick breaks
Its use also splinters.
But utility is no more than a shadow,
Cast by a brighter flame—
It vanishes instantly.
Look: a smaller stick remains.
Shall we curse the Sun
For being small in the sky?

§ 2

The fruit tumbles and bruises,
Its sweetness spilling on the ground.
Who claims the loss?
A bird, a beetle, or the Earth itself?
What ripens is not wasted—
Even the wind shares in the feast.

§ 3

The branch sways in the wind,
Each leaf trembling like a hand unsure.
Yet the roots below do not stir.
The mountain bends too,
Though it takes a thousand years to bow.
And so it is with us:
Death bends our bodies to dust,
Yet life shall always rise from endless roots.

§ 4

The thorn bush guards its fruit,
Each needle poised for pain.
But the hungry know:
Sweetness lies beyond the sting.
Will you turn away at the first scratch?
Even the sky bleeds red at sunset,
And still, the stars emerge.

§ 5

The stream divides around the stone,
Yet neither fights nor yields.
Water flows, stone holds.
Who is the master here?
Each shapes the other,
And neither remains unchanged.