Classic Poem

Just a few feet away, a temple from the Six Dynasties,
pines and cedars shading its low walls.
Wild monkeys steal offerings to Buddha,
and mountain birds imitate the way people speak.
The stones here are imbued with spirit — even on clear days
they are moist.
The stream has a voice — in the utter silence
it keeps babbling.
My worldly mind has long since become void;
this place is my Jetavana monastery.