A bird half wakened in the lunar noonSang halfway through its little inborn tune.

I'll never wake up in a good mood again. I'm tired of these stinky boots.

In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height. In the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

The same stream of life that runs through the world runs through my veins night and day.

Oh, grant me my prayer, that I may never lose the touch of the one in the play of the many.