I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road.
Now, in the cool of the evening, I knock at the door of the inn. It is deserted and in ruins.
A grim ashath tree spreads its hungry clutching roots through the gaping fissures of the walls.
 
Days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet.
They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.
 
But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.

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The gardener
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