by tendo zenji
Getting up past midnight and gazing across
the West Garden, I encounter the Rising Moon
Waking to the sound of heavy dew falling,
I open the door, gaze past the west garden
to a cold moon rising over eastern ridges,
scattered bamboo, roots gone clear, clear.
Distance clarifies a waterfall into silence.
Now and then, a mountain bird calls out.
I lean on a column, stay till dawn in these
isolate depths of quiet: no words, no words.
Translated by David Hinton
from Mountain Home: The Wilderness Poetry of Ancient China, p. 151