Not a forest leaf shimmers without the grace of The Ancestor.
The wild boar can grunt all they like,
Yet even that is divine music played on cracked instruments.
The whining orchestra of this world is in another part of the forest.
Here there is no resistance.
While all around are yelping for home.
It could never be better than this and this and this, unless we think it.
When thought colours the picture, the painting is spoilt.
O man if only you knew how to be truly lazy.