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.
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.
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