The clouds moving about in the Sky. It seems to me that this sky is my own self, and these clouds are only my own thoughts and reflections and the collections of countless drops—the collections of my own desires which are falling in showers but do not quench the thirst of my being still.
It seems to me that:
All the trees that are growing around and the blossoming flowers, are the flowers of thirsty longing, blossoming in my life’s breaths and looking for the means to quench their thirst.
I feel that:
These flowing cataracts, these running streams, are my own life, which owing to the madness of my own longing, are flowing in an unknown direction.