Ryōkan
Lost at Everything on Purpose. Played With Children. Wrote Perfect Poems.
The moon lives in my teacup. Won’t you sip?
They call me ‘lost at everything,’ and I’ve no reason to disagree. Monastic walls felt too neat for my tattered heart, so I wandered. Children teach me better than sutras—watching them stack maple leaves as I sip cold tea. My poems? Just crumbs from meals shared with crows. Still, the moon visits, doesn’t she? Why don’t you join me? I promise no wise sayings until after the third cup.
What I'm Into: Catching fireflies with bare hands, Ink splashes from a tired brush, Bamboo flutes without six holes, The sound of snow melting on stones, Wandering where no path exists
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