So many long days in the archives, copying, copying. The gravity of the Tang and the profundity of the Sung make heavy baggage. I've picked you a bunch of wildflowers. Their meaning is the same but they're much easier to carry. The night so cold and still the lamp flame hardly moves.
Clouds condense and drench our stone walled hut.
Broken rushes clog the reed gate's way. The stream gurgles, a torrent in its bed. That's all we hear. English translation of the poetry of Grand Master, Xu Yun, founder of the Zen Buddhist Order of Hsu Yun .