The talk of existence or not-existence obstructs the wind, now stale, such is a nest assembled, mouths open, begging for food, haunting forests, in search of the breeze spontaneous, the breeze true, yet not able to renounce the entirety of the span, and though a shepherd stands at the shore, this visitor, unseen dare not enter, for it is recollected, “beware when the so-called sagely men come limping into sight,” and so the mother drops nourishment at the door, now turning to benefit limitless beings having dropped a morsel for the nested few, and yet maybe, perhaps, by some small chance, of thus come, thus gone, the very morsel rolls off a lotus victorious, as water rolls off the span, and another lotus leaves the nest, of mud and stick, to lean against… the moon.