The monk who lifts the bowl's pure, and poor, and plain. It's cold, and he's late, leaving the temple on the mountain. By the red doors of the rich that face the high road, he stands and waits as the wind drifts the snow. As the moon, so clear and constant. Numb, and always in service, not knowing the world's ways: Don't mock, you passers-by: the Buddha of old was just so.
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A Monk, Begging Food
Kuan Hsiu (832-912)
Trans: J. P. Seaton
The monk who lifts the bowl's
pure, and poor, and plain. It's
cold, and he's late, leaving the
temple on the mountain. By the red
doors of the rich that face the high road,
he stands and waits as the wind drifts the snow.
As the moon, so clear and constant.
Numb, and always in service, not knowing
the world's ways: Don't mock, you passers-by:
the Buddha of old was just so.
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