Getting out of the way

Reading poems is for a bloke like me like meeting people. These written signs, birdfeet-like, made of black ink sometimes come to life. I visit them like good old friends, dream and sit and drink with them, often in the secret of my heart, sometimes openly, outrageously cause I love it. The following old Chinese stuff is very dear to me, it is also quite mysterious, ambiguous. I don't know what it means even if, in a fraction of a dream, I sense that my-your-everybody's life has that taste. A taste of a tasteless nature. A bite of nothing. This poem rings like a lightness and clarity of a temple bell in the hazy distance as my moody and clumsy feet are caught in marshes and bogs (blogs?). It is written by Li Po. Here it is:

Zazen on Ching-t'ing Mountain


The birds have vanished from the sky
Now the last cloud drains away

We sit together
The mountain and me
until only the mountain remains