In the Ryöan-ji garden,
fifteen half buried stones
invite contemplation
raked white gravel, islands
of green moss and limestone
against an ochre wall.
Five hundred years swallow
the watchers on the hōjō’s benches.
Visitors whisper.
The ancient priest sees all.
In the crowd there is still space
to be alone.
From benches polished by time
pilgrims see fourteen stones,
await enlightenment
for all its beauty, the silence
longs to hear the sound
of a bee.
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