Monday, August 22, 2016

Son Mountain 17: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

This place of my retreat,
so secret, it’s difficult to express—
without a wind, the wild vines stir,
without a mist, the bamboo is in the dark,
who do the mountain streams cry for,
why are clouds assembling together?
I sit in my hut at noon
suddenly realizing the sun is risen.

(from the translations of RP175, RH-176, BW-46)

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