Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him
I took a small path leading
Up a hill valley, finding there
A temple, its gate covered
With moss, and in front of
The door but tracks of birds;
In the room of the old monk
No one was living, and I
Staring through the window
Saw but a hair duster hanging
On the wall, itself covered
With dust; emptily I sighed
Thinking to go, but then
Turning back several times,
Seeing how the mist on
The hills was flying, and then
A light rain fell as if it
Were flowers falling from
The sky, making a music of
Its own; away in the distance
Came the cry of a monkey, and
For me the cares of the world
Slipped away, and I was filled
With the beauty around me.