Home in a rundown village, nothing but bare walls;
here, there, a hired hand--somehow I get by.
I recall that day years ago, setting off on my wanderings,
hopes high as the sky then--so sure I had it in me.
2. Coming Home
I left my family, left my province, searching for a teacher,
one robe, one alms bowl--how many springs in all?
Today, coming home, I ask about old friends--
So many lie now under the northern hill!
3.
Empty, silent, my three-span hut,
all day with never a caller.
I sit alone by the quiet window,
hearing only the leaves that keep on falling.
4. Winter Nights Are Long
Winter nights are long, winter nights are long,
winter nights go on and on--when will daylight come?
No flame in the lamp, no charcoal in the brazier,
by my pillow all I hear is the sound of night rain.
Translated by Burton Watson