March
The road runs into pine sighs;
From far off, it’s even stranger.
Mountain light and colors in the water,
Tufted, raggedy.
On a crag in the middle,
In zazen, all alone,
One monk,
Sits facing the cassia bough:
Already old, long ago.
- Chiao Jan (730-799)
Why not sign up to get emails with all daily posts included?
No comments:
Post a Comment
I will not allow spam or back links to other sites as I can not moderate where these are going to.