The monks often say that the mountains recite prayers at night-time, when the gentle, hazy moonlight appears once more.
The lake holds its light and becomes a beacon for wildlife. Flocks of birds, insects, tigers, elephants and every other species imaginable always gather at the edges of the water, carefully at first, making space, until they take their nightly turn to bathe and drink. This is the only time that all of the animals come together in peace.
The mountains always sing in the distance, and the creatures always listen. They're drawn to it. Attracted by it. They know that while they sing, they won't be harmed. But it's only the monks that truly understand the meaning. Lives devoted to learning the nature of their peace and tranquillity. By night, the monks reside in the temples, singing as long as the mountains sing, living as long as the mountains live, but in the morning, when they no longer sing, they reflect.
In the morning, they sit in the lotus position on the mountain edge, eyes closed, breathing deeply, meditating. The hair from their beards is grown since it was possible to grow, and at such an ancient age, they reach to the bottom of the mountain and beyond; stretching to the bottom of the lake for the goldfish to see. They think that it's bait, and swim up to it. They nip until the air bubbles in the follicles of hair break loose and rise to the surface. The bubbles expand and transform until they become water-lilies.
When the night-time appears once again in the cycle, the lake is full of them, glowing like candles, shimmering against the moon-lit water where every animal sips. The powerful song of prayer echoes through the valley in an earthy tone, but with a human touch.
