Death has a hundred hands and walks by a thousand ways.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.

I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different.

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.

The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

Cold Mountain Buddhas Han Shan Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness be dancing. Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry, The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony Of death and birth.

There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.

It is worth dying to find out what life is.

And what the dead had no speech for, when living, they can tell you, being dead: the communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.