Read an Excerpt
listen to the sound of the mind's own utterance,
Within the womb of the beauty of Autumn,
While the setting sun shows the red glory of her smile.
Hearing the bamboo flute which no one plays,
Listen to the reeds swaying in the breeze,
And the silent ripple's song.
The disciples debate,
But never reach the ripple's end.
The teacher's word that lies beyond the mind—Listened to, it cannot be found,
And found, it still cannot be heard.
As an old soldier
Watching the territory:
Flags go up and down
Where the soldiers gather;
Hearing distant archery contests;
Horses are unsaddled in the meadow;
Flute of a soldier who is in love;
Listening to the creaking of the cannon swayed in the wind.
The sound of the flute fades away;
The banner of victory is fluttered by the breeze;
Rustling of armor takes place constantly.
Occasional smell of horse dung,
Occasional cheerful chatter of the armed force—
bide in the tent, the general,
Listening to the occasional grasshopper's leap:
How grateful to be a soldier.
Gold-black cloud in the southern quarter—
can hear the flag fluttered violently by the wind.
thought occurs to me:
"somebody's getting out of the administration."
The memory of a whistling arrow on the battlefield
And the high-pitched echo of swift swordsmanship.
thought occurs to me:
"Somebody's getting into business,"
As the horses begin to neigh—
They are ready for tomorrow's battle:
"somebody's going to teach philosophy tomorrow
And get out of the administration at the end of the week."
The cloud from the south moves close to the center of the sky,
Dark with wrath.
We hear resounding deep thunder.
The warriors' fight must go on— Vigor and bravery
Well-cared-for bows and wrestling armor
Are our only resources.
Frontier warfare is sad and happy,
It is romantic and treacherous
How I feel that I am a good soldier
Listening to the rustling of armor
Where the white tents are blown by the wind.
We are sharpening our swords and our arrowheads.
How romantic to be fighters
Conquering the American plains!
Good luck to Boulder
The pine trees— Full of fantastic battlegrounds.
The kingdom rests at eleven and eleven.
It is good to fight,
It is good to know that victory is,
It is good that I alone can wage this particular warfare.
fight in the old fashion.
While the grass was falling asleep
Waiting for the snowflakes,
Timid world has been reshaped into warrior world:
My accomplishment is achieved.
Abundance of sympathy, devotion, kindness, politeness—
All amount to asleep and awake.
When dying culture is reintroduced,
It becomes genuinely powerful.