In a quiet place, where no one goes,
I sit, swaying a little in the breeze.
I wonder if the water in the stream
Has ever tried to quell the never-ceasing
Forces that compel it on its way.
Does the water ever wish that it could
Rest and think a little, just like me?
Does it wonder where it's going? Or, with
Beautiful submission, does it travel on its
Way with no regrets? I want to do
What's right, to travel on my way
With no regrets. So I sit, swaying
In the breeze and listening to
The rustling leaves, who whisper,
'Rest feels near.'