We set out, drift and wander wherever our beguiled whims take us,
no need to pretend our walking-sticks might meet at some bridge.
When ch’an mind opens, you can’t ignore all this quiet emptiness.
And even old, with our crystalline bones of Tao, why fear the cold?
translated by David Hinton
It’s been ages since I visited city markets,
and I’m past worry over disappointments.
It’s quiet. I gather blossoms, and awaiting
sage-masters, drink clouds at their source.
translated by David Hinton
Across a thousand hundred-twist trails through forest hills,
a painting’s wind-mist silvers autumn into a single color,
nothing left but the beauty of wandering out impulse here.
Red poplar-tears: what grief scatters them across streams?
translated by David Hinton
Things aren’t other than they are.
I am today whoever I was long ago,
and if I can be described, it’s as this
pure likeness of things themselves.
translated by David Hinton
It’s all mirage illusion, like cinnabar-and-azure paintings, this
human world. We wander here for a time, then vanish into dust.
Things aren’t other than they are. That’s all anyone can know.
Don’t ask if this thing I am today is the thing I was long ago.
translated by David Hinton
Who ever lives our life’s full hundred years? It’s the body’s
grief. And gazing through spring wind, your eyes weep tears.
Birds in song, open blossoms–everything has its thoughts.
Don’t forget the poetry in mountain cherry and pied wagtail.
translated by David Hinton
Old now, tangled in human form, I’m done trusting wisdom.
Knowledge in ruins, I’ll follow farmland elders, live out my
hundred years like a child. What else could carry me clear
through, heal all these failures hacking and scarring my face?
translated by David Hinton
Gazing at each other, we’re held here.
Dusk lake tranquil, we sit hand in hand,
talk fallen silent. Slow, deep in radiant
moonlight, island after island emerges.
translated by David Hinton
By Heaven!
I will be your comrade,
and may our friendship never fail.
When mountains have no peaks
and rivers run dry,
when thunder rolls in winter
and summer snow falls–
only then will I desert you!
translated by Burton Watson
At the post house lodge, plum flowers scattering,
by the valley bridge, willows coming out,
fragrant grass, warm wind that sways the traveler’s reins:
parting grief–the farther apart, the more endless it grows,
long and unbroken like a river in spring.
Inch on inch of gentle heart,
brimming, brimming, her rouge-stained tears:
the tower so tall–don’t go near, don’t lean on the high railing!
At the very end of the level plain–spring hills are there,
but the traveler’s even farther, beyond spring hills.
translated by Burton Watson
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
A virtual cabaret of songs, stories and questionable life choices.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet and author by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 