December 05th, 2017
Yuan Hung-tao (1568-1610)
Yellow leaves spiral down through the air;
Waterfall spray flies into raindrops.
Patches of moss darken Buddha’s face;
The stones here have been brushed by
The robes of a god.
The monks are tranquil,
Though their kitchen has few vegetables.
The mountains, cold;
Not many sparrows in the flock.
Of themselves, my worries all disappear;
I do not have to try to forget the world.