Mountains and Rocks

Mountains and Rocks

The rocks are rugged, the path grows narrow;

At dusk I reach the temple, bats are flying.

I ascend the hall, sit on the steps—fresh rain has fallen,

The plantain leaves are broad, the gardenia blossoms heavy.

The monk says the ancient wall has fine Buddhist paintings,

But when he brings a torch to look, there is little to be seen.

He spreads a bed, sweeps a mat, sets out rice and broth—

Coarse fare, yet enough to satisfy my hunger.

Deep in the night I lie still, all insects hushed;

A clear moon rises over the ridge, its light pouring through the door.

At dawn I leave alone, no path before me,

Ascending and descending through the mist and haze.

Red mountains, blue ravines, splendor spread everywhere;

From time to time I see pines and oaks, each ten arm-spans round.

I wade barefoot across the stream upon the stones,

The water's rushing sound, the wind tugging at my robe.

A life like this—how could it not bring joy?

Must one be tethered always, bridled by the service of others?

Ah, you few friends of mine—

Why not come here and never return, even unto old age?