My home is nicely concealed in the depths;
The place I live is cut off from dust and hubbub.
The grasses I trample become my three rings of retreat;
The clouds I view make up my neighbours on the four corners.
To accompany my singing, there is the bird polyphony;
To ask about the Dharma, there is no one with whom I’d talk.
Today I’m like a long-lived stinking cedar;
Several years amount to one endless spring.
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Which is enough and more....
Diana....
Blessings,
Christine