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Every day priests minutely examine the Dharma
And endlessly chant complicated sutras. Before doing that, though, they should learn How to read the love letters Sent by the wind and rain, The snow and moon. Stilted koans and convoluted answers are all monks have.
Pandering endlessly to officials and rich patrons. Good friends of the Dharma, so proud, let me tell you, A brothel girl in gold brocade is worth more than any of you. Every night, Blind Mori accompanies me in song.
Under the covers, two mandarin ducks whisper to each other. We promise to be together forever, But right now this old fellow enjoys an eternal spring.
Under the trees, among the rocks, a thatched hut: Verses and sacred commentaries live there together. I’ll burn the books I carry in my bag,But how can I forget the verses written in my gut?
Memories
There are none:
When they depart,
All is a dream:
My life - how sad!
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