On the snowy horizon, a sunlight stripe is glowing, contrasting sharply with the black edge of the forest and dark thick clouds in the sky. Unstable, like an early waking, it now appears, then disappears, until dissolving in the sunshine that floods all around.
Life is a sequence of awakenings, a blinking of light on a forest road, a break in the clouds reminiscent of clean sky, a quiet sleep of grass under the snow ready to sprout, a forgotten thought hidden in a secret place where all are alive.
The bones of peoples who inhabited this land before us lie in these fields the sun gleams over, on the slopes of the hills where sprouts of spring slumber, in valleys where cities spread out, shrouded in fog.
The word collects together what is alive, and even when it dies down, it’s still here, hidden under the snow of nonexistence, silently waiting for a spring sunbeam.