〈Mountain Temples〉 

(1) Golden Dragon Zen Temple

In the fine rain, the temple’s bell tones wash
the ink-green and deep blue of the mountain bright.
Mountain cherry blossoms blaze along the path—
fiery flames that burn without a sound,
searing first my eyes, then my heart.
In the rain’s curtain, the blurred Taipei basin
is like a dull earthen pot,
boiling with the greed, anger, and illusion
of countless souls below.
“Recite the suffering of all beings—yet dare not free yourself.”
A pinecone hurled by the wind falls into the pond,
cracking the silence wide open.
After the bell falls still, a wooden fish floats
into the thick dusk, leaving the hall
with calm, deliberate grace.

(2) Zhāngshān Temple 

At dusk, the bell is like an ancient fan
sloshing away the sun into the valley,
its echo drifting like a lost letter thrown back by the cliff—
hastily slapped toward a dozing novice under pine trees.
Under faint incense winds, evening cicadas whisper,
debating what Dharma name the newly ordained novice should take.
Pine waves surge like rain torrents roaring from all directions.
I sidestep into the vast twilight,
as if a passing annotation quietly slipped
into a thick Buddhist sutra:
(Believing this lets me stand apart from the world.)
If only farther away—
say, a century beyond—
the bell might sound clearer still.

(3) Zhǐnán Palace Mountain Path

White clouds cover the ground, untouched by brooms;
on the stone steps of the mountain trail
rest pale, yellowing sutra volumes.
Climbing upward, both sleeves carry
the wind’s untiring voice;
leaves falling behind dart forward
to query me like wandering thoughts.
But I am just an ordinary pilgrim—
no meditation seeker, no worshipper bound for Buddha’s shrine.
In the distance, layers of cloud surge upon the emerald hills,
the sun’s chill light hiding and peeking along the mountain path.
Tree shadows tremble like playful courtiers,
and several stone lanterns lie forlorn beside the way—
their mossy surface tattooed with time,
their hollow shades keeping captive
the weary sun’s last embers.
Before the mountain rain falls, the saturated sky
seems to gather itself
into a bowl of dripping rain tones.

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