Drinking the Wine
I built my house near where others live.
Still there’s no sound of wheels or voices.
You’ll ask me ‘How can that be?’
When the mind is remote the place is distant.
Cutting Chrysanthemums by the Eastern Hedge,
I look out towards the Southern Hills.
Mountain air is fine at end of day.
The flights of birds make for home.
In these things there is a hint of Truth,
but trying to tell it there’s no mind, no words.
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