We are not the thoughts
that have shaped us,
for thoughts are echoes—
whispers born in the unseen depths,
drifting between light and shadow,
awareness and oblivion.
Beware what you allow to rise,
for every thought is a seed,
planted in silence,
growing roots that may bind
or set you free.
Do not let the currents
carry you away.
You are not the river,
but the hand that steers it.
You are the source—
primal, vast, and still.
Thoughts are ripples,
fleeting and restless,
dancing on the surface.
They rise, they wander, they fade,
carrying echoes far beyond,
yet always returning
to where they began.
Refine them.
Guide them.
Let them serve, not rule.
For thoughts may travel,
but you remain—
unchanged,
unmoved,
the silent center
of your own unfolding.
MyKoul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem