to my teacher

.

An old grave hidden away at the foot of a deserted hill, 

Overrun with rank weeds growing unchecked year after year; 

There is no one left to tend the tomb, 

And only an occasional woodcutter passes by. 

Once I was his pupil, a youth with shaggy hair, 

Learning deeply from him by the Narrow River. 

One morning I set off on my solitary journey 

And the years passed between us in silence. 

Now I have returned to find him at rest here; 

How can I honor his departed spirit? 

I pour a dipper of pure water over his tombstone 

And offer a silent prayer. 

The sun suddenly disappears behind the hill 

And I’m enveloped by the roar of the wind in the pines. 

I try to pull myself away but cannot; 

A flood of tears soaks my sleeves.

~ Ryokan

art by Thomas Wood