Awakening from deep sleep in the mountain top temple in spring.
Thoughts slowly stream as the tiger runs along the bank of the fountainhead.
Alone, the monk grinds clouds of winsome tea.
I collect a few dried branches of the fallen pine tree.
Entertaining a friend on a spring evening with a splendid orange blossom tea:
Yesterday an eastern wind blew around the orange blossoms,
awakening from a hangover in spring evening to a bowl of tea
Like an cloud above the deep moat protecting me,
this frost makes my old home seem a wild place.
The golden disk has been broken and turns into a rainy dew. The jade dust brewed up gives of
a shining red smoke.
It seems like today I’m completely sick of thirst,
I don’t even envy the crane dipping his neck in the water from the platform.
mountain temple way of the utmost affection.
After the spring leap year has passed, the mountain temple
flowers begin to open.
There is still one who has an unfettered heart,
quietly taking measure of these surroundings.
The bird’s deep song goes unbroken,
the tea’s good scent returns heavily.
Knowing to stay a long time on the southern cliffs,
obscuring the heart, sitting in green moss.