
In the morning the old man next door came to my thatched hut.
He asked me why the book was damp.

One evening sitting by the lamp my tears wouldn’t stop,
and soaked into the records of the ancient Buddha Eihei.

For whom was all his eloquence expounded?
Longing for ancient times and grieving for the present, my heart is exhausted.

For five hundred years it’s been covered with dust
just because no one has had an eye for recognizing dharma.

Nobody has asked whether it is a jewel or a pebble.
Practice Within The Order of Buddhist Contemplatives