Life of a small boar

Am I toying with fire?

I see the surface of the lake.
It's calm, with hints of breeze
Dragonflies tips playfully on it
It reflects still a smiling face of me

Am I stirring the water from beneath far beyond the surface?
Is it the root I'm starting a havoc at?
How much can it take before tranquility is disrupted?
How much more, before mud pollute the clear?

Or is it all just in my head?
Dreams of the green grass will always be a dream the lake don't reflect
when I look deep into the depth.