1

Yellow leaves spiral down through the air;
waterfall spray flies into raindrops.
Patches of moss darken Buddha's face;
the stones here have been brushed
by the robes of a god.
The monks are tranquil,
though their kitchen has few vegetables;
the mountain, cold —
not many sparrows in the flock.
Of themselves, my worries all disappear;
I do not have to try to forget the world.

2

Height after height of strange mountain scenes;
new words, new ideas in our conversation.
Wild pines blow in the wind like hanging manes;
the ancient rocks are covered with mottled scales.
I enter the temple, seek the dream-realm of the monks,
thumb through sutras, feel the dustiness
of this traveler's life.
You, the Zen master, I, a lover of wine —
we are brothers, way beyond
the people of the world.