Mang stands atop the mountain. Across the shore lies a night of surging waves. Countless winds and waves roll past, sweeping away all that is desolate. The sky screen gradually quivers, like layer upon layer of clear silk in the hands of a woman washing silk.
There are no clouds.
The mountains and sea are still black, but the sky has begun to float upward, deep blue sinking as pale blue rises.
That lamp appears abruptly, like an ember cruelly cast aside.
Who knows who holds the candle? The wind rises like a distant bell, yet its light still flickers and glows.
A candle: a flower of light drifting in the sea, its golden fragrance spreading over the mountains and sea like gold dust.
The candle-bearer walks down the mountain. The golden trail of light grows longer and longer, scattering the heavy darkness into fragments.
And so the retreating darkness is pierced through the heart and turns to flakes of leaden gray, rising and falling.
The candle-bearer walks down the mountain. The light in their hand has shifted to orange-red, gradually tearing through the night and splitting the sky screen.
Feathers of leaden gray fill the sky. The night collapses at the foot of the mountain, deep blue swaying as pale blue rises.
Dawn has come.
Who knows who holds the candle?
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