153
To the blind pen the hand that writes is unreal,
its writing unmeaning.
154
The sea smites his own barren breast
because he has no flowers to offer to the moon.
155
The greed for fruit misses the flower.
156
God in His temple of stars
waits for man to bring him his lamp.
157
The fire restrained in the tree fashions flowers.
Released from bonds, the shameless flame
dies in barren ashes.
158
The sky sets no snare to capture the moon,
it is her own freedom which binds her.
The light that fills the sky
seeks its limit in a dew-drop on the grass.
159
Wealth is the burden of bigness,
Welfare the fulness of being.
160
The razor-blade is proud of its keenness
when it sneers at the sun.