The poem
I took a small path leading up a hill valley, finding there a temple, its gate covered with moss, and in front of the door but tracks of birds; in the room of the old monk no one was living, and I staring through the window saw but a hair duster hanging on the wall, itself covered with dust; emptily I sighed thinking to go, but then turning back several times, seeing how the mist on the hills was flying, and then a light rain fell as if it were flowers falling from the sky, making a music of its own; away in the distance came the cry of a monkey, and for me the cares of the world slipped away, and I was filled with the beauty around me.