Rags are indecent, and there is no shame in covering with what you have. Maybe it is mean for the beggar to beg, as a poet begs for his words, and a man begs for a bride. A woman will say no to the haggard emaciated beggars: Those hanging around the temple of the Green Buddha hoping for a hand out. The Green Buddha, who all clamber to, offering food and a home. Yet He will not eat except what will stave off death for a day, and even in the temple given to him, he knows his homelessness. The beggars, his disciples, where is the difference? Because everyone will learn. And who will be His bride? We are all Buddhas, you would know it if you would let the prophets speak. The ladles of immortality that the House of the West offer are empty. We clothe ourselves in fine ideas that are transparent, and the finer our idea, the more naked and indecent we are. The Emperor has no clothes, and has many women. Get on your knees and believe: There is one and only one woven cloth with which all the worlds of dreams and hardships, queens and beggars clothe themselves. Only this cloth is real, we try to fill it, but in the end we must give the cloth away.