If there are things I haven't said, Temple of Earth, don't think I've forgotten them. I haven't forgotten anything, but some things are only meant to be kept. They can't be spoken, can't be thought about, and yet can't be forgotten. They can't become language; they can't be turned into language, because once they become language, they are no longer themselves. They are a hazy warmth and solitude, a ripe hope and despair, and they have only two homes: the heart and the grave.

But the sun—at every moment it is both the setting sun and the rising sun. As it dims and descends the mountain, gathering up the last cold remnants of light, it is at the same time burning on the other side, climbing to the peak and scattering the fierce morning glow. On that day, I too will walk down the mountain in stillness, leaning on my cane. And one day, in some hollow of the hills, a lively child will surely come running up, clutching his toy. Of course, that is not me. But then again, is it not me? The universe, with its unceasing desire, forges a dance into eternity. What human name this desire goes by can be safely ignored.