If you die, why is it fun to live? The sun had turned yellow—the universe had cast off its first veil and dressed itself in gold—the yellow moon hung in the sky like an ordinary cloud. The setting sun, moving with a slow and weary gait, crept toward the western horizon. Day's luminescence was surrendering to evening's silence. Darkness stretched its arms from the east in an anxious reach, eager to sweep away the fading day. After bidding farewell to the world's people, the dying sun suddenly sank into the sea of darkness, and night descended upon my shoulders. The dawn was crushed beneath night's blackness. Its reflections, now dappled with night's shadow-cloak, fell upon my veiled form, and for an instant a fury rose in my heart against that darkness. But the next moment, my thoughts returned to the path of reason. It didn't take long to find the truth—the secret revealed itself at once: the color of morning is night's soldier, just as the life of the unworthy is death's. The notion of life without death is as hollow as darkness without light, autumn without spring, joy without sorrow, success without failure. It is for this reason the supreme scholar labors ceaselessly—if death did not exist, who would wish to live? In whose heart does that wish dwell, if not death's? Death is not merely the darkness but also its brightness. Those who meditate have awakened to the knowledge of annihilation and life's pain. And the truth is this: all life's luxuries court death. Life becomes a test for you only because death walks beside it. We are small, we are bubbles. Life is our examination in this living room. Death alone saves life from the curse of sameness. Without death, life would drift away on winds of monotony. Sameness is the plague that strips beauty from all things. Why do those who embrace nothingness turn their faces from it? Time seeks its own eternal dwelling. The whole world lies wrapped in darkness, not a star, not a glimmer to break the monotony of the black night sky. Peace and stillness reign absolute. No longer do birds sing, animals cry, or men speak. Nearby, the church tower's clock strikes twelve. All the world rests save the tireless, ever-flowing stream and the faithful, laboring clock. Its hands trudge on, never to return. Suddenly, this peace is shattered by the cock's shrill cry, and the sun—a great fiery cannonball—peers over the horizon, flooding the earth with molten gold.
Everything on earth comes alive to greet a new and radiant dawn.
Yes, it is the many-feathered rooster that has gifted us the promise of another day.