On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
The sea darkens And a wild duck s call Is faintly white.
When I speak My lips feel cold - The autumn wind.
Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.
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.
Not to think of yourself / as someone who did not count -- / Festival of the Souls.