(This book is also titled: The Unclear White)
I died and became a white dove in a church.
I lived and became a black crow outside the church.
It is the purest point, a cycle with no beginning or end.
No one can create it. It is the Creator.
Silent within terror, pure within filth.
Everything comes from it, and everything destroys itself through it.
It may be a cycle, but it cannot be complex.
Black that does not sink, white that is unclear.
All under Heaven is its false color, its fading shadow in the abyss of thought.
I hope my soul can rise to an ideal dimension.
In the cosmic sea, deep among the mottled stars.
Let me see you once, my darling.
