Classic Poem

1

Ten years in the brothels — hard to wear out desire;
I force myself to live in empty hills, a dark ravine.
Those pleasant places — countless miles of clouds shut them from me now;
tall pines — harsh in my ear, winds above the roof.

2

Who is the true transmitter of Rinzai's line?
These elegant ones with their pretty boys attending?
One bowl of muddy wine, three thousand poems —
I laugh at Zen monks who don't know their Zen.

3

Contemplating the Law, reading sutras, trying to be a real master;
yellow robes, the stick, the shouts, till my wooden seat's all crooked;
but it seems my real business was always in the muck,
with my great passion for women, and for boys as well.

4

Blind Mori night after night tends my singing;
under the quilts, two mandarin ducks, we whisper our love once more,
once more her vow, " till the dawn of Maitreya's preaching, "
for an old buddha who's been here all along, ten thousand springs!

5

The tree had withered, leaves fallen, then spring came round again;
the green grew out, blossoms were born, old vows made anew —
oh Mori, if I forget the great debt I owe you,
for endless kalpas let me be born a beast!