When your consciousness has become ripe in true zazen-pure like clear water, like a serene mountain lake, not moved by any wind-then anything may serve as a medium for realization.

The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.

Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.

The old pond, ah! A frog jumps in: The water's sound.

Without bitterest cold that penetrates to the very bone, how can plum blossoms send forth their fragrance all over the world?

Spring rain conveyed under the trees in drops.

Twilight whippoorwill... Whistle on, sweet deepener Of dark loneliness