Bitter rain soaks the pile of kindling twigs.
The night so cold and still the lamp flame hardly moves.
Clouds condense and drench our stone walled hut.
Broken rushes clog the reed gate's way.
The stream gurgles, a torrent in its bed.
That's all we hear. Only rarely, comes a human voice...
But oh, how priceless is this peace of mind that fills us
As we sit on our heels and put on another Chan monk's robe!