A beautiful morning is just outside the window — shivering in mid-autumn wind; hearing the melody of little cuckoo’s song. A big black ant, how big it may be but is never enough to carry the grain. That was my thought once. Well, it’s been another delight to prove wrong, sometimes. Oh! Look at those grass blades! How perfectly dewdrop settled on it, just to become past soon. And the poor worm, the little creature — crawling, and crawling, and crawling.
Different names, different forms. There is really nothing else. Isn’t it? With the rising sun, they all seem shed their duality, if ever they had any.
They are there. I am here.
And, mere opening eyes, is not awakening.