Classic Poem

The old monk in his ancient temple.
In loneliness he burns incense;
Lonely he strikes the great bell.
He offers sunflower seeds and wheat to the gods.
The door, broken and falling, will not shut.
Golden the rays of the setting sun strike on the scattered groves of pine.
The stars peer in through the crevices in the broken walls.
He sits, Buddha-wise, on his straw mat, meditating in the darkness.
In the deep night he makes a little tea,
His brazier glowing red in the blackness.