EMIL CIORAN
In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world.
RYŌKAN
“For Children Killed in a Smallpox Epidemic”
When spring arrives
From every tree tip
Flowers will bloom,
But those children
Who fell with last autumn’s leaves
Will never return.
Keep your heart clear and transparent
And you will never be bound.
A single disturbed thought, though,
Creates ten thousand distractions.
Let myriad things captivate you
And you’ll go further and further astray.
How painful to see people
All wrapped up in themselves.
I watch people in the world
Throw away their lives lusting after things,
Never able to satisfy their desires,
Falling into deep despair
And torturing themselves.
Even if they get what they want
How long will they be able to enjoy it?
For one heavenly pleasure
They suffer ten torments of hell,
Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone.
Such people are like monkeys
Frantically grasping for the moon in the water
And then falling into a whirlpool.
How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer.
Despite myself, I fret over them all night
And cannot staunch my flow of tears.
Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off from all worldly matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?
I’m so aware
That it’s all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?
When I think
About the misery
Of those in this world
Their sadness
Becomes mine.
Oh, that my monk’s robe
Were wide enough
To gather up all
The suffering people
In this floating world.
Nothing makes me
More happy than
Amida Buddha’s Vow
To save
Everyone.
If you are not put off
By the voice of the valley
And the starry peaks,
Why not walk through the shady cedars
And come see me?
At dusk
Come to my hut—
The crickets will
Serenade you, and I will
Introduce you to the moonlit woods.