THE MOON RISES OVER AN OLD TEMPLE
When the moon rises over an old temple,
its fleeting rays gild the ancient finials.
The wind grieves across the holes of the bamboo flute,
brings the sadness of distance back to the heart.
Brushing the weeds from among the foundation stones,
the path of the great company Buddhas is yellowed.
I do not know where the bright Buddhas have gone,
the roseate notes of time which attract the light.
When the moon rises over an old temple,
its fleeting rays illumine the dullness of the mind.
Beyond the sadness of the bamboo flute, there is comfort,
calling from the distance the light of the Buddhas.
Like the ancient writing, absorbed into the ink,
in the new sky, the shadows of the temple have meaning.
I the sadness of the shadows of the world,
there is surely a light, a candle of the mind.
In the spaces between the motes of a dust jar,
there are formed bright images of the Buddha.
In the melody of the bamboo flute there exists a paradise,
when the moon rises over an old temple….
2009
Translation from Mongolian by Simon Wickhamsmith