A Path Without Footprints

(for when the guide is no more)

When the old master died,

three followers stood frozen.

No one moved.

No one knew how.

They had followed her path for so long,

they had forgotten their way.

In her footsteps,

they lost direction —

for she had been

the way.

After reflection, some discussion,

and strong words,

they chose to split and find their own way.

The first gathered the master’s robes, her staff,

and every word she had ever spoken.

He built a shrine and copied her steps — exactly.

He taught silence where the master had paused,

to bow where the master had lowered her head.

At first, harmony was restored.

But over time, their steps became stiff.

The silence turned hollow.

The bowing grew rigid,

its purpose forgotten.

The form remained.

but the fire was gone.

The second shouted:

“The master is dead — we must find our own way!”

He burned the master’s teachings

and went on his way.

He invented new forms, strange questions,

and wild ways of sitting and speaking.

At first, it was exciting — for a time, they played.

But soon, his students scattered.

Pulled in too many directions,

the essence was lost.

The center could no longer hold.

No one could tell anymore

the difference between

the searching and the spinning.

The third paused a while

before taking her first step.

She chose to carry with her

only a memory – of how her master

once stirred her tea.

And with that memory,

she walked away — alone, quietly, reverently.

On her way,

she taught her students how to listen —

not to repeat, but to understand.

How to question — not to doubt, 

but to uncover.

How to wait — not for direction, 

but for the silence

beyond.

When her students asked:

“Where is the master’s way?”

She replied in silence:

“Where your footstep lands.”

“And her footprints?”

She smiled.

“The true path leaves none.

But walk it well,

and you will know.”