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The Solitary Monk
The Solitary Monk
With matted hair and tufts of locks,
With flowing beard and a drape that flops,
The Solitary monk who wakes at dawn,
In the frozen winter all alone.
No care, no bondage, no throught he goes,
Unperturbed he walks on the icy snow.
He dips in the lake, with water so cold,
Muttering his prayers, his beads he hold.
The gushing wind, the glistening snow,
The rising sun with its orange glow.
A fire he lights with some wooden sticks,
And stares for long at its fiery flicks.
No pangs of hunger, no hurry of work,
No fear of beasts, in forest that lu
rk.
He sits all calm, in the winter air.
For the world he has not a bit of care.
The fog which hangs as thick as cloud,
The slightest sound, just seems so loud.
A haze so deep so hard to see,
In it sits the sage so happy and free.
The frozen stones so hard and cool,
He sits on them, all free of rule.
The dried leaves, no sign of life,
He wears a deer skin with stripes.
His hair flies with the blowing wind,
Its chilly touch, he never mind.
The solitary monk on the mountain top,
Where winter comes and time stop.
