I stagger, single-minded, on the 40-li-high path to Gyerimsa,
The black cuckoo of Mt. Chorok soaking in my collar,
Beads of sweat on forehead, white clouds gleaming.
Mountain follows stream and water flows from mountain;
Time means nothing in the landscape of the temple,
One’s heart emerges, wordless, exposed—and yet
With these dyed robes weighing heavy on my shoulders
And 108 prayer beads hanging eyeless, tight, around my neck,
Why is the way so dark as I stand in the bright light of day?
In some deep valley, a solitary wildflower blooms with a smile,
And the wind from the great forest comes to drowse in these pine woods.
Today, bowing low to the green mountains, at this site, I arrive.