In the misty realm of being, where thought finds rest

In the misty realm of being, where thought finds rest, There lies an ancient corridor winding with longing, Concealing at its end the door to an unexplored, mystical room, Upon whose walls echo the secretive chant of a spring's source. This door, untraveled, scorned by the rust of time, Stands still, guarding over a garden of quiet wanderings, It finely discriminates between the thicket of sorrowful delirium And the fervent self-discovery that beckons from restless hearts. Mystical keeper of the porch where light and shadow play, It whispers a call to set aside the masks deeply embraced, The metaphor of the door remains poised to unlock the temple's dare, When the bolt is broken, the chain of fear shattered, falling aside, distanced. It, a gate without locks, splits the two worlds, stretching as a bridge, Beyond which dwells that silence, mute, untouchable, eternal, A mirror devoid of silver, reflecting only those who've learned to heed themselves, And to traverse fearlessly, through mysterious lands, with only the soul external. O, seeker amidst the soul's arcades, through paths hidden among leaves, Lift your gaze towards the door that's been closed to you daily, yet ever open, Gentle eternity awaits beyond your wall of dreams and excuses, Where everything begins and ends, in your hand, the key is unseen but promised. In passing through the shadow of this world of shifting facades, The door swings wide, effortlessly, silently, threshold-free, And within you, in the summer of the soul, where time is but a fluttering leaf, There lies the sanctuary, the chambers of silence, where you are everything and nothing, a droplet and an entire ocean on the brink.