A day in mist to clear my foggy mind
Once, in a realm carved by the patient hand of time, I wandered—beneath Wulong’s sacred arches, through Tiansheng’s triune gates of stone, where the Earth had breathed a hush upon the centuries. Each bridge, solemn and towering, seemed less formed than summoned—great sentinels born not of mortal toil but of the solemn dreams of nature itself. The sun dared only whisper here, casting light in reverent shards upon the moss-veiled rock and whispering leaves.
I tread beneath these vaults of wonder, where silence gathered like prayer, and even my heartbeat felt unworthy to echo. There, the world stood still—an ancient cathedral not built, but revealed. Every step was a hymn, every glance upward a psalm to stone and sky.
But it was in the long shadow of Longshuixia, the Fissures deep and dreaming, that I found comfort in the breath of the earth. The waterfalls wept down hidden faces, their voices soft and eternal. Coolness wrapped around me like forgotten silk—an embrace from the caverned soul of the mountain. It was not chill, but balm—a hush against the heat of thought, a kiss upon the fevered brow of the living.
Here, time dissolved. No past, no hour. Only the drip, the sigh, the whispered hymn of water on stone. I stood suspended in the hush of the Earth’s dreaming, and in that moment, I too became still. Humbled. Held.
There is poetry that lives not in books, but in places—wrought by wind, water, and waiting. Wulong is such a verse, sung low by the mountains, carried in echoes down the ravine. And I, for a day, was a line within it.