Silent Guardians of the Stream

On the still waters, they glide, cloaked in stone, Their faces veiled, their purpose unknown. Three figures in a boat, a silent choir, Rowing through time, through dreams, through fire. Their hands, steady, their gaze, unyielding, A testament to strength, to the soul's yielding. Each stroke of the oar, a rhythm of life, A dance with the current, a dance with the strife. Are they guardians of the past, or the future's guide? Their presence, a riddle, their purpose, a tide. In their stillness, we find our own reflection, A mirror of our journey, our own direction. For in their eyes, we see our own fears, Our own hopes, our own dreams, our own years. They are the silent witnesses of our path, Guiding us through the waters of our wrath. Oh, Silent Guardians, your presence is a balm, A reminder that we are not alone in the calm. Your stone faces, though still, speak volumes, Of the timeless journey, of the soul's numinous.