Arranging five moles whose psychic style shrouds the Tao, probing their speech, how it executes sound, asking:
What idiom’s viable? What tone suggests implication? Which ear considers what’s said? Who’s snooping? Who’s got occasion?
Will this liberty fit this line? Or is the demise of the word the destruction of the world?
A docile sound, pounding yet passive.
Our enemy feels our actual condition. We know Its position: Over crimson sod where banners of fading apathy sag; like grim water weighing us down, It gallops away from the sky, sinking.
Vacuous controlling aims harmonize us with Its ever active fluid consistencies shaping our spiritual wave-forms, swaying the wind.
A swing [non-insistent] seams a true picture of power, while authorized bunting waves without any clout itself.
The same song swinging the maize ignites this jetting water’s fall, this metallic sound of stars exploding beyond the noise, and deliberate rule dominates the designed inequity of force in harmony with what riches can be won.
Phases do not probe the luminosity of desertion, subsisting for those petrified by their names to say nothing.
Force need not insist upon its function or activity.