Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him

I took a small path leading

up a hill valley, finding there

a temple, its gate covered

with moss, and in front of

the door but tracks of birds;

in the room of the old monk

no one was living, and I

staring through the window

saw but a hair duster hanging

on the wall, itself covered

with dust; emptily I sighed

thinking to go, but then

turning back several times,

seeing how the mist on

the hills was flying, and then

a light rain fell as if it

were flowers falling from

the sky, making a music of

its own; away in the distance

came the cry of a monkey, and

for me the cares of the world

slipped away, and I was filled

with the beauty around me.