Even when a river of tears courses through this body, the flame of love cannot be quenched.
In this world
love has no color
yet how deeply
is stained by yours.
Rather than recallin these flowersthe fragrance of the past,I would like to hear this nightingale's voice,to know if his song is as sweet.
Although I try / to hold the single thought / of Buddha's teaching in my heart, / I cannot help but hear / the many crickets' voices calling as well.
The one close to me now; even my own body--these too will soon become clouds, floating in different directions.
Watching the moon at midnight, solitary, mid-sky, I knew myself completely, no part left out.
Come quickly -- as soon as these blossoms open, they fall. This world exists as a sheen of dew on flowers.
In love longing I listen to the monk's bell. I will never forget you even for an interval short as those between the bell notes.
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