With the clouds the harvest snow has came, now is the three coldest decades,
It’s the time when the mountains are snowed over and closed.
I am so sad and depressed all alone in the mountains silent,
All day long not a sound of human speech.
Under tattered robes in two layers, I huddle in cold sitting alone,
all night long so miserable with no end.
Still no way to sleep, the sharp wind pierces the cracks in the door.
In the morning it is time go beg in the village some food,
by the spring on the narrow path I spy jade leaves forming berries right in the ice.
Blowing on my icy hands to get warm I am despising myself,
This my body of filthy bones and mundane flesh all is bad.
Day and night all the time harries me with the hunger and cold, makes me long for transcendence of life-death from the morning to night.
It is only my will I rely on, to push open the door to the ‘heart-moon of thousands kalpas past’.