the path to the buddha’s table



is a dream,

the years pass by like

flowing waters. Glamour and glory are

transient as autumn smoke; what tragedy —

for with the sun set deeply in the

west, still there are those

lost among paths of



Our heart

should be clear as ice.

Forget all the worldly nonsense.

Sit calmly, breathe quietly, heart bright

and spotless as an empty mirror.

This is the path to

the buddha’s



Loy Ching-Yuen