Ninety days of staying put and yet one can
find moments of leisure,
Trying to make out a tattered sutra, I read
under the light of the moon.
Although I have ears, I hear nothing of the
dusty affairs of the world;
A fragrant breeze slips through the door
as I think of the lofty sages.
Ashamed of my meager talents, I flee the
world to ancient streams,
Nursing my illness, all day long I keep the
double-shuttered gate closed.
The vines and creepers grow thick and dense,
and no one comes;
Sometimes the forest birds and I discuss
methods of self-cultivation.
I watched unmoved as waves recede and Dharma
gates fall into disrepair,
I draw a circle on the ground within which
I will hide myself away.
Suddenly the summer begins to draw to
a close, and fall comes again;
It is only recently that I have mastered the art
of being a complete fool.