Things have never declared themselves empty, nor have they declared
themselves form; and they have not declared themselves right, wrong,
defiled or pure. Nor is there a mind that binds and fetters people.
It is just because...
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.