Time drifts away, as mist fades on the mountain. The world itself is hardly more substantial. The living water springing from life’s fountain runs dry, leaving discarded bones bleaching in the sun.
Molecules of arms and legs and brain are rebels all and would be free again and the whole pageant of our days and hours runs only till we lose our feeble powers.
We are children playing out our days with sandcastles and fantasies until the turning of the tide slides in to erase what we have worked so hard to raise, struggled to protect and called our own – fragments of things, at very best on loan.
Upward our thoughts might usefully aspire; nothing down here needs building any higher.
Deal justly with your neighbour and make of him your friend and, in your inner garden, labour until you reach your end.