Ox mountain was covered by trees, but it stands by
a populous city. The people climbed up with their
axes and choppers; they cut the wood down, and
the mountain lost its vegetation.

Yet evenso, there came the night breeze. Rain and
dew moistened it: green shoots began to grow.
Cattle and sheep grazed there. After some time,
the mountain was gaunt and bare. People who see
it barren today imagine it always treeless.

Who knows that the woods were tampered
with, hewn with axes, beaten with clubs? The
trees are lopped, day after day; how will the
mountain flourish?

Confucius said these words: „Hold on and it will
remain. Let go and it disappears. One never knows
the time it comes. One never sees where it has
gone.“ In making his remarks, perhaps he referred
to the heart.