The ancestral way come from the west I transmit east.
Fishing the moon, cultivating clouds,
I long for the ancient wind.
How could red dusts from the mundane world fly up to here?
Snowy nights in the deep mountains in my grass hut.
The ancestral way come from the west I transmit east.
Fishing the moon, cultivating clouds,
I long for the ancient wind.
How could red dusts from the mundane world fly up to here?
Snowy nights in the deep mountains in my grass hut.
Shundo David Haye - Zen Priest 
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