Every morningthe worldis created. Under the orange sticks of the sunthe heapedashes of the nightturn into leaves again and fasten themselves to the high branches —and the ponds appearlike black clothon which are painted islands of summer lilies. If it is your natureto be happyyou will swim away along the soft trails for hours, your imaginationalighting everywhere. And if your spiritcarries within it the thornthat is heavier than lead —if it’s all you can doto keep on trudging — there is stillsomewhere deep within youa beast shouting that the earthis exactly what it wanted — each pond with its blazing liliesis a prayer…