He who would find
No reason to ask the question

Where do the trees
Acquire their patience to stand so still

And why do the flowers blossom
Radiate with color and fragrance
And then wither away and die

He would find in life
That which transcends
Its beginning and end
That which precedes
The question itself

 

Only when we have come to rest in silence can we truly speak. And only when we have made peace with death, can we truly live.