Author Jonathan Chaves A fine breeze blows through the temple halls, touches my robe; beyond the railing, the rains of the plum season fall. Here there is a tranquil monk to engage in conversation ā he breaks off a palm-frond to use as his chowry. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments