When I am silent, I feel full; when I speak, I feel empty.
The life of the past is dead. I rejoice greatly in this death, for by this I know that it once lived. The life of death has decayed. I rejoice greatly in this decay, for I know by it that it is not empty.
The mud of life is abandoned on the ground, and no trees grow, only weeds. This is my sin.
Weeds have no deep roots and no beautiful flowers and leaves, yet they absorb dew, water, and the blood and flesh of the dead, each of which robs it of its existence. While it is alive, it will still be trampled on and cut down, until it dies and decays.
But I am calm and happy. I will laugh and I will sing.
I love my weeds, but I hate the ground decorated with weeds.
The underground fire is running and raging underground; once the lava breaks out, it will burn all the wild grass and trees, leaving nothing to decay.
But I am calm and happy. I will laugh and I will sing.
There is such silence in heaven and earth that I cannot laugh and sing. If heaven and earth were not so peaceful, I might not be able to.
Between light and darkness, life and death, past and future, I dedicate this tussock of wild grass as my pledge to friend and foe, man and beast, those I love and those I do not love.
For my own sake, for the sake of friend and foe, man and beast, those whom I love and those whom I do not love, I hope for the swift death and decay of this wild grass. Otherwise, I have not lived in the first place, which would be truly more unfortunate than death and decay.
Go away, weeds, along with my inscription