In a coat stitched with riddles and smiley disguise,

The fox walks alone where the quiet trees rise.

He’s steady with questions, not bound by a cage.

The forest is watching, but offers no sound,

Its roots tangled deep in the thoughts he has found.

A mouse sits nearby, small witness to grace,

No fear in its eyes, just a curious face.

Real wisdom,” he murmurs, “won’t come from a script,

Nor from the mouths where the truth has been clipped.

It lives in the hunger, the ache to explore,

The silence that asks us to seek something more.”

Symbols may shimmer, but meaning runs deep—

In coats and in questions, in dreams and in sleep.

So walk like the fox, with your own steady pace,

Let truth be your lantern, not someone’s embrace.