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I love reading poetry written in other centuries within other cultures. The ideas remain universal in spite of the differences.
Sending Away a Visitor, Sitting Alone
Piles of sutras, the warm stove, and unbroken silence—
my solitude, as an Immortal's house.
The warm day brightens plum blossoms, and my steps—
a light wind seeps through the gate, fells willow flowers.
I've given up writing. The roof-tile ink-stone slabs,
long dry. I should heat Dragon Tea over the strong fire.
Don't say I have no guests in this isolated place—
it's quite natural for bees of the mountain to visit.
1611
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