Like a flower that emerges from rocky soil only on a fully moonlit night, truth appears—and its fragrance enriches whomever waits nearby. Then suddenly, just as it appears on no appointed schedule, it disappears again; only silence marks the empty spot from which it sprang.
Some try to dig it out but manage to extract only bits and pieces of petals, stem, and occasional root. But none can pull from the ground intact what is one with its nurturing soil, nor can any harm this precious flower they pursue, because it cannot be possessed; it is deathless.
Perhaps the harm in their pursuit, if any, is the almost impossible discovery that the beauty they so long to possess does not live apart from them; rather, it lives for them—even in those moments when they tear it apart, trying in vain to possess what it gives freely to those who die for the sight of it.
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