Poem: Ching An (1851-1912)
At Lushan Temple
In the shimer of distance
the bell speaks pure Sanskrit
seeing off the slanting sun.
the overhanging cliffs
send their fragrance on the stream.
In the single wind chime at the temple's eaves
the wind speaks for itself.
Before my window, ten thousand trees,
the rain's the first Fall chill.
The hills, locked in cloud essence,
pry into my purity.
The river carries the ancient sound of the billows
all the way to the sea.
I won't admire the thousand-year crane
that nests the ageless pine.
He doesn't know that in the human world
groves turn into seas.