The far mountains do not speak; the lone island becomes a poem.

Having come this far, you have left the clamour of the world and entered a vast expanse of mist and water.

The ridge is a vein of snow; the island, a lamp of the heart — alone, but not lonely.

A meeting arrives like rain. We wait on the wind; we wait for the moon.

There is nothing here —

only the tide at your pillow, the wind and the moon for neighbours.

May you find one clear and quiet thought,

and forget, for a while, your name in the floating world.