Upasika Hsieh Ping-ying
Reading a Sutra, Sketching a Sage’s Image
Closed in the room, one corner still lets in the wind.
Buried my head in a Sutra bent on a bitter toil.
Under the lamplight, the sound, 'sha, sha' of my brush against the paper:
my head I suddenly see the sun has already gone red.
I haven’t yet repaid her kindness my Mother, now born in the West.
At midnight come thoughts of her—emotions of utter grief.
She’s gone from this life; I will never see her again.
I can only hope to be in touch—At the pools of the seven jewels.