Orange blossom

Orange blossom golden and white

falling from tight lipped flowers

their fragrance is hidden in the song

of a tumbling stream.


Neither wind nor water

nor dancing clouds that dodge

the candle holding mountains

could be more kind to Dai Tung Tzai.


A shy girl brings us scented tea

by the little stone bridge that jumps the stream

orange blossom for our delight

water to wash in from a bamboo pipe.


The stupa on the outcrop

sat mute and still

beyond its shadow the silent waters of the bay

and a green peaked mountain far away.


A woman sang in the bamboo grove

the wooden fish tapped pop pop pop pop

monotonous drone

cool summer eve


telling of Buddha, of peace, of the void

and the bamboo breeze sighed and sighed

Ormitopha Ormitopha

Koon yam poussa.