Lan Ping. Time passes quietly, listening to the sound of the second hand of the clock passing through the four seasons. If someone plants the dark clouds, plays the rainy season, and water the flowers that want to bloom, let the buds of this season bloom well and well. At such times, I will lower my unruly self-esteem and use a very, very low posture to listen to the ocean about you and hope, the surging waves, rocks, tides, obscurities, and the moment of light when the sun jumps out of the sea level in the early morning.
An olive branch from God?
No.
Chapter 7 of The Night of the Lord?
The black ink is dyed with tranquility.
I will write its ending with my own hands.
Allah's Quran?
The light of morning dries the last line of sadness.
Nirvana of Gautama Buddha?
No.
Confucius's idea of governing the country and bringing peace to the country?
Too busy.