By chance I knocked at his Zen hut,
Sat among the slopes
And knew that these monastery dusty dreams
Are all unreal.
Water flowing mindfully; what trace does it leave?
Idle clouds pursuing their whim; they lean on nothing.
The novice hoes the garden, greens at their best now;
Monkeys wail in the ravine where chestnuts
Have grown plump.
Reluctantly I start down the path among the pines;
The white moon in its beauty comes to see me home.


...We now return you to the previous broadcast.