Passing the building made of stone
outlines of people in the windows.
Are they watching the patch-robed
monk passing by?
What experiences brought them here?
What truths do they have?
When the seasons change for the
last time of the present life,
experience, truth, non-truth – merge
a final push to reach further
down the path.
The road leads where the mind thinks
in not thinking the road disappears.
The snowy fields beyond the
closed gate neither sing nor cry.
They wait silently.
Even the falling snow makes no sound.
And the echo you hear is my heart racing
as I stand at the closed gate.
