A flock of migrating geese
Rest for a moment on the snow,
Leave the print of their claws
And fly away, some East, some West.
The old monk is no more.
There is a new gravestone for him.
On the broken wall of his hut
You can’t find the poems we wrote.
There’s nothing to show we’ve ever been there.
The road was long. We were tired out.
My limping mule brayed all the way.
SU TUNG P’O