Because I have, to a very great extent, cast off the loneliness of life, I am able to withdraw from my pessimism. From now on my singing will not only comfort myself, it will be used to arouse. More and more, I am certain that it is a way of recording and not merely a diversion, or an amusement. There is not even time to feel sorrow. That being the case, everything that I do will evaporate like the morning dew. What I want to warn people to take note of are only a few very ordinary things. Because the elements which those things embody will cause people to be shocked and in the end will never forgotten. What I focus upon is not only people, it is everything which can not be separated from people. I have never dwelt exclusively on hardship, but can never lose that intense sensitivity. What I offer is only testimony to a certain state of being.

This is probably already enough. And it is necessary. Here I only follow a principle of simplicity, that of naturally despising the opportunist. To the left and right I am accompanied by the real and true, and at this moment it is not necessary to seek recognition. My voice is exactly the same as the soughing of the wind in the grass and the chirping of insects. It is identical and equal to the the noise of the wild plains. There is no need for an independent singer here; in fact, it would not be possible. I must use all my powers simply to achieve fidelity, in order to gain the right to sing by their side.

I came completely empty-handed and the wilderness took me for a destitute brother. We rubbed shoulders, staying close together day and night. I merged myself with the wilderness. Ordinary eyes had no way of distinguishing me. Our breathing combined to form the wind. The gusts blew from the stalks of grain and through the river valleys, then returned to our midst. This wind washes away my fatigue and weariness as it enfolds our song in unison. Can anyone distinguish my voice from the chorus? I have become the voice of nature. This is the first time in my life that I have felt so proud.

The world into which I have cast myself brims with life force. Here is a never-ceasing metamorphosis, perishing and birth. News of these things is covered by the falling leaves and seeps into the mud below. Things newly born shine brightly in the first rays of sunlight. Here, ten thousand changes take place in an instant, and as light and shadow mingle, I only draw my heart strings tighter and allow my thoughts to melt slowly away. A cacophony rises all around, and there are endless disturbances----this is my native place. I follow the Spirit of the native place closely, following as it roams over every ditch and gully. My singing sometimes shakes the foundation of my heart, sometimes it floats with the wind. The Spirit invisibly controls the singing, or perhaps the unified voices bring the Spirit to life. I am charged with being the incompetent secretary of this place. I write down all that I hear and recite. Stupid and befuddled, I dare not fall behind a single step.

I can see that my limbs have been entangled by green vines. Lichens have grown over my forehead. This is not death, it is life. I can be a tree, thrusting down my roots to become a sense organ on this place. From now on my sighs will no longer be my own, nor will I be in control of them. A man has perished and a tree has been born. Life still remains, but there has been a qualitative transformation.

In this way the sounds and harmonies that I myself have produced remain in another world. I seek out those like me because I love them. I love all that is pure and beautiful. The result of my search is that I have been transformed into a tree. The wind and rain will continuously comb and wash me; the frost and snow will be my make-up. But I have no loneliness. Since loneliness is a concept from the other side, it issues forth another kind of smell. From here on there will only be the self knowledge of a tree. There will also be its experiences and sensations. Some people may understand the songs sung by the tree and notice the sounds made by the leaves in the wind. However the tree itself has no such expectations. Each and every tree is born and lives this way. Its greatest desire is probably to hold tightly to the soil all its life.