Empty mountain — no one in sight, only voices, somewhere, sounding. Late light returns to the deep wood and burns once more on the green moss. deer park · translation made for this scroll
A brush that lifts too late ruins the stroke. A brush that lifts too early ruins the silence.
A thousand peaks, and no bird flies. Ten thousand paths, and no footprint stays. One boat. An old man in a straw rain-cloak, fishing alone the cold river's snow. river snow · translation made for this scroll
The painter of this scroll left the mountain unpainted. Every reader finishes it differently.
Moonlight pools before my bed — for one breath I take it for frost. I raise my head: the bright moon. I lower it: home. quiet night thought · translation made for this scroll
读者即画者
The reader is the painter. Set your seal to close the scroll.
scroll closed