Coming, Going, The Waterbirds, Don't Leave A

The Color Of The Mountains Is Buddha's Body; The Sound Of Running Water Is His Great Speech.

But Do Not Ask Me Where I Am Going, As I Travel In This Limitless World, Where Every Step I Take Is My Home.

To What Shall I Liken The World? Moonlight, Reflected In Dewdrops, Shaken From A Crane's Bill.

In The Stream, Rushing Past To The Dusty World, My Fleeting Form Casts No Reflection.

In A Mind Clear As Still Water, Even The Waves, Breaking, Are Reflecting Its Light.