There are no demands on your compassion. The hall is still empty. The professor opens the windows to the heat on the western side. The audience appears slowly, fanning, silent. 

Now it is time for the performance of compassion as the cup of a flower holding rain.  

Now it is time for the performance of compassion as the unclipping of the rope from the stanchion. 

There are no demands on your compassion. The unmuscled flower returns to its bed. Fatigue is not the last gesture, not the most lasting, among those the audience ghosts in their seats.