In my hut, toward midnight, the rain has stopped. As I return from my dreams, a solitary lamp shines quietly in the room. Outside, the ‘plop, plop’ of rainwater, dripping from leaves. Against the wall, my old staff displays its hidden ridges and furrows. The hearth is cold; there is no more charcoal. But whom have I to entertain? Books lie on my bare floor, but I’m not even tempted to stretch out my hand. The flavor of this night is known only to me. Hours later, days later — how can it ever be described?
Our life in this world: to what shall I compare it? It is like an echo resounding through the mountains, and off into the empty sky...
Tonight, the plum trees reflect the silver moon: both are full in bloom — entranced, I did not return home till evening. I’ve left the world far behind; my robe is covered with moss, a small bundle of firewood burns, brightening the sky.
Back and forth, back and forth, all day the bent old man carries water for the parched, dry seedlings. Late at night, listening to the winter rain, recalling my youth: was it a dream, was I really young once?
What is the heart of this old monk like? A gentle wind, beneath a vast sky.
Everywhere you look, the mountains are covered with mist, and blooming cherry trees.