In the low ground, even lower, I saw a petite flower.
Its head comes out of dense grass, quietly approaching the sunlight,
and its golden tendrils, resting on the leaves, dazzle in the sun.
It bends menially in the wind as if a pilgrim is giving greetings.
It has a dream unknown to all, hidden under tall grasses,
but each time a wind blows by, the little flower sees its innermost self.
Walking by the petite flower, I feel curiously calm.
Dewdrops moisten my garment, my inner emptiness and loneliness.
Afar, a prayer in the snow sways his praying wheel,
then prostrates lower than the flower, like the wild grass on the plateau.
In this vermillion monastery, flowers are the most touching sight,
and no passage in the sutra is more vivid than the mutual dependence of two hearts.
Translated by Meifu Wang and Michael Soper from Chinese
Copyright: Journal of 21st Century Chinese Poetry, ISSN 2166-3688