Number 6

The branch is green, the meadow glad; the world flourishes through the justice of spring. The moment the bud turns its face toward the open field, it loosens a knot from the heart's tightness. The cypress stands in service of the rose; the willow has fallen at the plane tree's feet. I am the servant of the musk-breathed lily, who alone is free from the bondage of the world. The violet's heart is broken, what can it do? It has bowed its head to the tyranny of the age. Every means of pleasure the world can give has gathered, all of it, into the cypress's hand. How can it shake an empty hand at the world? No one helps carry its load, no one lends a hand. Look at that bud with a knowing heart, how cheerful it stays even in its own sorrow. Because it knows the good and evil of this world are like a heap of flowers scattered to the wind.