March 25^th, 2026

The mountain stones were rough, the path narrow.
Bats flew in the twilight when I reached the temple.
I climbed to the hall and sat on the steps,
Where the fresh rain had washed
The great palm leaves and sleek gardenias.

The monk said there were fine Buddhas
Painted on the old walls:
He took a lamp to show me some of them.
He spread the bed, dusted the mats,
And set out rice for me:
It was coarse but satisfied my hunger.

Late at night it was quiet,
And not an insect murmured
As the clear moon came over the mountains,
And entered my door.

I left at dawn, alone, and lost my way,
Up and down the twisting mountains in the mist
Where the red hills glittered in the jade green brooks.
I saw pines and oaks full ten spans around,
And my bare feet in swift water stepped over rocks
Where the water boiled and the wind tore my clothes.

A person could be happy here.
Why should I bridle myself in crowded towns?
Oh, my own few disciples:
What if I grew old here and never returned?

Han Yu