The wild grass—green and misty; has there ever been an autumn which did not bring pain? This sick man’s house has no visitors— even my little dog sleeps all day, I must look in books for things to use in poems; no money for wine to warm me up, I put on extra clothes. The door shut, I read Chuang Tzu: the chapters on Horses’ Hoofs and The Floods of Autumn.
She has cut off her conch-shell hairdo, thrown away her eyebrow pencil;
one indulgence remains—a single cup of tea.
Her sandal-wood clappers now accompany Sanskrit chanting;
her silk dress has been recut: a makeshift cassock.
Her mind is like quiet water reflecting the moon.
Her body is a cold forest still putting forth blossoms.
How many times can you remember the hand of ordination on her brow?