How long had it been since we had truly spoken? I thought back to when our paths had only just crossed. Shivering in the rain though she was, I had done my best to provide an escape from suffering. Now, once again in the same spirit we meet at the bridge, water ever-flowing.
She had not seen the garment that I so hastily plundered. As if it was fate, the strange qualities of the cloth made it easy to conceal till we could meet far from the grasp of demons.
As I laid the strange cloth upon her, suddenly there was little that need be said.
Fear may flow as rivers,
And tears become as rain.
Yet sweat often delivers,
A swifter, softer pain.
The ripples on a stream,
Reflected in one's eye,
Will find a maiden's dream,
That one's own death may die.-- Letters to Abhaya