And this is what is born. A world turned inside out. Light and dark reversed. Buds blossoming at night on branches white and luminous.
Everything is its opposite. A thousand thoughts have found new settings. The oxherd drinks it in and wonders: Who could have done this? Who could have brought this Idea into being?
The oxherd does not know because he is not what he once was. The act of creating has changed him. Listen to the poet: "Pure and immaculate, he watches the growth of things, while himself abiding in immoveable serenity."
What has become of the oxherd? We cannot tell, for he remains in his hut, absorbed in what he sees. The absorption is complete, the self so still it seems not to exist.
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