-Somewhere near the 37th parallel
north, and a hundred and twenty seven
degrees east, there is a mountain
from which the chants of monks can be heard.
To get there, one must walk along
a solitary stretch of road, along a ditch.
In the cold dry wind of spring,
not a sound, other than the scratching,
each footfall, digging at the dirt road,
pebbles scattering under the weight.
Somewhere on that mountain
is a path that leads to a cliff,
peace inscribed on the mountain’s side
in stone, an image, immovable.
Each step must be overcome, upward,
along the ledge of the mountain.
In the moisture of the spring,
silence waits at the mountain’s top
for those who are silent, those who
listen for silence to find peace.
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