If there are things I haven't said, Temple of Earth, don't think I've forgotten. I haven't forgotten anything, but some things are only meant to be kept. They cannot be spoken, nor thought about, yet they cannot be forgotten. They cannot become language; they cannot be turned into language, for once they become language, they are no longer themselves. They are a hazy warmth and solitude, a ripened hope and despair. Their only dwelling places are two: the heart and the grave.

But the sun—it is always both the setting sun and the rising sun. At the very moment it extinguishes itself as it descends the mountain, gathering all the bleak afterglow, it is also burning on the other side, climbing to the summit and scattering the blazing morning light. On that day, I too will quietly descend the mountain, leaning on my cane. And one day, in some hollow of the hills, a joyful child will surely come running up, clutching his toy. Of course, that is not me. But is it not me? The universe, with its ceaseless desire, forges a dance and song into eternity. Whatever human name this desire goes by, it hardly matters.