I move my table to read sutras by moonlight

A paper-window  bamboo hut a hedge of hibiscus

wormwood soup for tea when guests arrive

the poor people I meet are mostly content

rare is the rich man not vain or wasteful

I move my table to read sutras by moonlight

I pick wildflowers to fill my altar vase

everyone says Tushita Heaven is fine

but how can it match this place of mine