Ripples are born in an instant through an act of folly.
A stone, a splash, or a foolish fish thinking it can fly
Creates, incidentally, an ever-increasing rhythmic turbulence
On the surface of a static pond.
The shock waves reach out for infinity in all directions,
But they fall very short, and die
In either the genesis of a later generation,
Or in the apathy of lethargic waves:
They are here, and in a twinkling they are gone,
For such is the impermanence of things.

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