John Stevens

A lonely four-mat hut—
All day no one in sight.
Alone, sitting beneath the window,
Only the continual sound of falling leaves.

My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows longer.
No news of the affairs of men,
Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.

The sun shines and I mend my cloth;
When the moon comes out I read poems.
I have nothing to report my friends.
If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing after
so many things.

Gogō-an

The wind blows through my tiny hermitage,
Not one thing is in the room.
Outside, a thousand cedars;
On the wall, several poems are written.
Now the kettle is covered with dust,
And no smoke rises from the rice steamer.
Who is pounding at my moonlit gate?
Only an old man from East Village.

Returning home after a day of begging;
Sage has covered my door.
Now a bunch of green leaves burns together with the firewood.
Silently I read the poems of Kanzan,
Accompanied by the autumn wind blowing a light rain that rustles through the reeds.
I stretch out both feet and lie down.
What is there to think about? What is there to doubt?