Breaking The Silence Of An Ancient Pond,

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

Traveler's Heart. Never Settled Long In One Place. Like A Portable Fire.

When Your Consciousness Has Become Ripe In True Zazen-pure Like Clear Water, Like A Serene Mountain Lake, Not Moved By Any Wind-then Anything May Serve As A Medium For Realization.

Just Washed, How Chill The White Leeks!

Poverty's Child - He Starts To Grind The Rice, And Gazes At The Moon.