LAMENTING CHAN MASTER ZONGMI

A precipitous path where only birds can go with snow on the ridges and peaks,

The master is dead—who will go up there to do Chan sitting?

Dust on his writing table has piled up since he extinguished.

The colors of the trees have changed since he was alive.

His tiered stupa faces pines rustling in the wind.

His footprints remain beside the neglected spring.

I just sigh over the tiger that used to listen to his sutra chanting,

Arriving on time at the side of his dilapidated hermitage.

—Jia Dao (779–843) (Quan Tangshi [Complete Tang Poems], 17:573.6669; see glossary under Jia Dao)