Countless waves rise and fall

The movement never stops.

Once I pointed at the waves

Trying to explain

Their power and their height

Not noticing the splendor

In which this all took place.

Mesmerized by sight of movement

Time and time again

I tried to catch the waves,

With all the means I could invent;

They were so dear to me.

But all the tricks did fail.

A compassionate wave saw my despair

And pointed out to me

That movements are not to be caught

By this, a movement itself.

If I am movement, I replied,

Do tell me then, who moves?

The wave just rose and then it fell.

No wave was left to tell.

It just returned 

from where it came,

The water, quiet now,

As if it never wore that form,

Displayed a blinking smile

When it was mirroring the sun,

That was playing in its turn

With a cloud, just passing by,

The game of hide and seek.

And this play, this movement,

in order to be performed

needed no questions, 

so it proved,

No answers were required.

It gets performed, just as the waves,

Like springing from its source,

Which, as rumors go,

Is mentioned as no-movement.

And it returns apparently 

to this same silent stage,

As the no-movement, 

which, as it is said,

has never ceased to be.