Deep on the mountain’s an unseen cloister;
Wicker shadows lock in the long bamboos.
Suddenly there’s a bell
Ringing now and then,
Empty valley filling with white clouds
Off drawing water, an old monk returns;
Pine-tree dew stains his robe green.
Bell barely murmurs; the cloister gate has closed.
Mountain birds, all by themselves,
Skirmish over roosting spots.