Once upon a time, in a certain town there was a coffin maker who opened and was running a store where he sold the coffins he made himself to the customers in the neighborhood. The popuplation in the town increased day-by-day.
I hear the song of the nightingale.
The sun is warm, the wind is mild, willows are green along the shore,
Here no bull can hide!
What artist can draw that massive head, those majestic horns?
Comment:When one hears the voice, one can sense its source. As soon as the six senses merge, the gate is entered. Wherever one enters one sees the head of the bull! This unity is like salt in water, like color in dyestuff. The slightest thing is not apart from self.