Grip loosely when you scorn the immoral—your hand brings 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 don’t jab them: they are already impaled.
Your vase is shattered. They broke you, didn’t they?
You need a new pot—I see a big one over there.
It’s held by a steady hand. How nice that would be.
Hold. It looks empty!
You are on the ground, but your soil covers you. 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 still solid after the waves turn.