First Poem of the Year
Eighty years, and I've added another,
a drifting traveler, leaving things up to Heaven.
Who understands that a poor monk too can boast of riches—
yellow leaves are his gold, the mosses his copper coins.
a drifting traveler, leaving things up to Heaven.
Who understands that a poor monk too can boast of riches—
yellow leaves are his gold, the mosses his copper coins.
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