First Snow-falling-on The Half-finished Bridge.

Go To The Object. Leave Your Subjective Preoccupation With Yourself. Do Not Impose Yourself On The Object. Become One With The Object. Plunge Deep Enough Into The Object To See Something Like A Hidden Glimmering There.

The Moon And Sun Are Travelers Through Eternity. Even The Years Wander On. Whether Drifting Through Life On A Boat Or Climbing Toward Old Age Leading A Horse, Each Day Is A Journey, And The Journey Itself Is Home.

The Temple Bell Stops But I Still Hear The Sound Coming Out Of The Flowers.

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.

Now The Swinging Bridge Is Quieted With Creepers ... Like Our Tendrilled Life.