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- Poetry of Ma Dai

Thatched with reeds and fenced with thorns, the temple stands,

Its steps in tiers of stone by rugged hands.

East valley’s laughter wakes west valley’s sound,

While clouds weep below, the peaks are sunlight-crowned.

Mice scurry from woodmen along moss-dark walls,

Apes swing on summits, shaking purple pines tall.

Yet one lone stream down to the ravine is thrown—

Through bamboo pipes, it fills the tea-maker’s own.