The moon rises over the old temple,
It’s transfigured light gilding the finial.
An air flows from a bamboo flute, and
The heart is filled once more by distant nostalgia.
 
Wild grasses push up between the stones,
Along the road where the Buddhas are gathered.
But I can’t see where the Buddhas have gone,
The light is so bright from the time beyond.
 
The moon rises over the old temple,
Its transfigured light shining in every heart.
A bamboo flute carries me beyond my grief,
Calls upon the Buddha’s distant light.
 
The shadow of the temple casts its meaning,
Like words fading into ancient ink.
Upon the shadow of human grief,
No light is cast by the candle of mind.
 
A shining vision of Buddha,
Even in the motes of finest dust.
There’s paradise in the bamboo flute’s melody,
And the moon is rising over the old temple…