Dearest Zhitong, the same of water is true of other things:
Although the hurricane is made of wind,
The hurricane is not the wind.
Although the wind may become a hurricane,
The wind is still itself.
Anima, animus, shadow, ego
Volatile, pulling silk stringed tongues &
Chasing the simian mind.
From your eight century secret grave
You whisper to me, even now. . .
The cold winter wind
That howls, destroys, terrifies
Is also the soft breeze.
So it is Indra’s net then, yes?
Teach me to speak in a language
Where words are not geometry
But images of animals, mountains, sky.
And tell me in a simple way so I can. . .
Even the hawk and vulture
Understand the wisdom of
There is nothing to grasp
And it is beautiful.