Look. He is standing up. He is turning towards the East, and making his obeisance.
Yet there is nothing to be seen, not even a streak of light.
Why not ask him what it is that he sees?
No, don't disturb him.
Do you know, it seems to me that the morning has dawned in him.
As if the ferry-boat of light had reached the shore of his forehead.
His mind is still, like the morning sky.
The storm of birds' songs will burst out presently.
He is striking his lute. His heart is singing.
Hush. He is singing.