Grip loosely when you scorn the immoral—your hand pulls you closer.
Do not let them swallow you, they will burn your depths.
Yet do not fear their touch; it is your own. In you live both.
Truth-seeker, are you?
Why do your eyes wander when you feel you’ve done enough?
I see nothing in your hands.
Seems rather you were searching for a place to sit: to earn your rest.
Remember the hand that stabbed you, but do not hold it.
Hold the one who took your skin, but do not jab them: they are already impaled.
Your vase is shattered. They broke you, didn’t they?
You need a new pot—I see one!
It’s held by a steady hand. How nice.
Hold. It looks empty!
You lie on the ground, covered in soil. Have you forgotten?
The hand that dropped you, watered you.
Be cautious. A steady hand may hold an empty can.
The hand which molds you imprisons you. Identity is a boulder.
Watch your formation and its joints—you are as much clay as steel.
Peek at your edges; they may soften with water.
Remember the ones solid after the waves turn.