The moon slips silver across still water,
frogs chant their low, ancient hymn.
A fish rises — one clean splunk —
and the night swallows it whole.
I sit where the ancestors once piled their stones,
their twilight mounds breathing under moss.
No engines, no voices, just the lake
holding the stars like a quiet promise.
Blood under the desk stays far away.
Here the cycle turns without hurry —
birth, hunger, death, and the soft splash of return.
I breathe, and for once the world lets me.
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