She plays out our drama: we do not know whether she herself sees it, yet she plays it for us, who stands in the corner.
She is eternal life, growth, and movement, yet she does not move on. She transforms herself endlessly but there is not a single moment's pause in her. She has no consept for stopping and she has set her curse upon standing still. She is firm. Her tread is measured, her exceptions rare, her laws immutable.
She has thought and ponders still, but not as humans do, but as nature does. She keeps to herself her own all-embracing meaning, which no one can discover from her.
All humans beings are in her, and she is in all. With all, she plays a friendly game and rejoices if ever one wins something from her. With many, she plays so secretly that she ends her game before they know it.
Even what is most unnatural is nature. Even the coarsest, most narrow-minded person has something of her genius. Whoever does not see her everywhere, then see's her clearly nowhere.
She loves herself and clings to herself eternally with innumerable eyes and hearts. She has divided herself to enjoy herself. Insatiable, she always brings forth beings to enjoy her, to communicate herself to.
She delights in illusons. Whoever destroys this illusion in themselves or others, she punishes like the sternest tyrant. But those who follow her trustingly she takes to her heart like a child.
Her children are innumerable. With noe is she sparing, but she has her favourites, those on and for whom she lavishes much and sacrfices much. Greatness, she protects.
She flings her creatures out of the nothingness and tells them nothing of where they come from or where they are going. They must only run; she knows the course.
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