By Upasika Hsieh Ping-ying
Translated by Bhiksuni Heng Ch’ih
Numbers six and seven in a series of ten, 
continued from issue #45.

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:

Lifting my head I suddenly see the sun has already gone red.

In Memory of My Mother

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.