Today is the Sun’s birthday, when we worship him in his chariot of seven colors. His chariot had this guy driving, who has no feet. But the seven horses shall move on towards the equinox, when day and night are of the same length, on our little leaves taken out fresh from our vegetable creeper. There is the spring dew, bird calls of morning and a few caterpillars yet to turn butterflies. Touch the morning leaves of the bean plant on its underside. It tingles with dew.
We burn dung cakes and in their smoke we cook milk and rice, The sweet rice shall smell of smoke. We love our sun that we shall not see with our naked eyes. Only when he gets eaten up by our earth shall we open our eyes to him.