Inspired and paraphrased by a Substack article about Taoism. Correctly formatted above, text below.

A quiet sickness, difficult to define,
because it is so often praised:

to constantly act, push ahead,
to endlessly prove oneself;

Call it efficiency,
call it progress.

And disguised as strength,
it exhausts the spirit and dulls the mind,
it robs us of calm.

Those who follow it think value
may be measured by their results.

Still running ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sitting still.

A restless sleep,
a barren quiet,
lost gaze,
always hunting.

But the sky does not rush,
the rain falls,
the seed grows;
the fruit sweetens without urgency;
the wise observe and learn:

time is not a foe to defeat, but a companion.

Chase not endless doing,
too much effort is wasted,
and too many words only confuse;

Choose what counts
act when needed,
then let go;

strive not to earn the right to exist,
no need to prove,
presence is a praise to life.

Those who believe they must always be useful
forget that they were once children;
loving before they can achieve,
treasuring before they may speak;

Forget that dawn also touches idle hands.
and the birds still sing for those who simply are.

This efficiency,  a harsh master,
takes without cease,
gives little back,
and knows nothing of true peace.

Those who bow to it are left weary
and then ask why they feel empty.

But the soul does not live on accomplishment.
it thrives in quiet,
in stillness,
in love that asks nothing.