The Taoist on the Roof

High temple, above a sea of ​​tiles

The morning world where countless footsteps come and go

The commotion at the lowest place

A cat looking down from the highest point.

Early dawn, busy commute

The crowd tangled up like ants

Subway, bus, hurried steps

Leaving all of that behind,

He is just quiet.

White snow, orange pattern, little philosopher

The world's suffering and greed

Sending it away on distant tiles and rhythms

Without moving a single beard

I simply entered into Zen meditation.

The sound of car horns, too

Even the sound of people's sighs, 

Before his calm eyes

It is nothing more than a wisp of wind.

Looking down at the world

A cat practicing the Way

This little Taoist on the mountaintop

Beyond all the complexities of the morning

His peace, 

It is filling up the roof.