March 08^th, 2020

Spending the Night at a Mountain Temple

A host of peaks rear up into the color of cold,
At this point the road splits to the meditation hall.
Shooting stars pierce through the bare trees,
And a rushing moon retreats from moving clouds.
Visitors come but rarely to the very summit;
Cranes do not flock together in the tall pines.
There is a monk, eighty years old,
Who has never heard of what happens in the world.