Everything,
every thing,
no matter how large or small,
no matter how lusterless or radiant,
is a master.
The master whispers: "Inside all appearances
resounds the secret song of redemption."
But the appearance is disillusioned.
"Something churns in me, but it isn't a threnody of liberation,
or an overture of greatness. I only feel the churning of much mental yoke."
The master, with one austere swing of the numinous hammer,
cracks the egg of disillusionment. Yoke spreads throughout the lands
and covers the archipelagos of consciousness in one swift current.
"Sorry," the master says.
"But you really needed that."
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