For the Contemplative Ones

Are those who are contemplative all children?
They race with the winds in pursuit of a bell’s chime. When their energies are spent, they drift off to sleep, with hope in their embrace.
To them, there is no difference between the stars in their dreams and those in the night sky, the twinkling lights patiently anticipating human presence.
The contemplative ones are indeed children.
They search for a room with an open door within this city. In that room, the lamp is always lit. If there are traces of sleep in their eyes, no one notices them.
Night descends like thick, dark ink permeating paper. As dewdrops appear, they bring tidings of a refreshing dawn.
People begin laying down their heavy luggage, no longer fretting which direction they will be taking next.
The light fragrance of mint fills the infinitely regenerative herb garden. The contemplative ones must be children then. They will always have, for company, the night sky, the earth and glimpses into the lives of others.