Moon at Half Past Noon

In the Himalayas’ hush, where peaks touch the sky’s dome,
A stream of thought begins, a whisper from the stone.
Its ripples weave through time, from memory’s deep throne,
Carrying tales of self, where mind and past are sown.

This flow, it shapes the heart, yet knows not its own source,
A current born of years, of joy and sharp remorse.
Through valleys of the mind, it charts a winding course,
Its waves obscure the truth, with shadows of old force.

What is this thought that clings, a shadow on the soul?
It builds a fragile cage, yet seeks to make us whole.
From silence, forms arise, in patterns we extol,
But truth lies past the stream, where stillness claims its role.

As mist on peaks dissolves, thought’s sparks fade in the air,
In quiet, streams grow still, their ripples none to bear.