Ryokan

 At night, deep in the mountains I sit in zazen.

The affairs of men never reach me here.

In the stillness I sit on a cushion across from the empty window.

The incense has been swallowed up by the endless night;

My robe has become a garment of white dew.

Unable to sleep, I walk into the garden;

Suddenly, above the highest peak, the round moon appears.

The winds have died, but flowers go on falling; birds call, but silence penetrates each song.