One does not look
at the flower
One brings too much
to the chrysanthemum
One brings in one's beliefs,
all that has been instilled in one;
and all of one's training
all of one's books and tenets of faith
There is no looking
There is no seeing
an awareness, an observing
And so the beauty of the chrysanthemum
escapes one
Thus all beauty escapes one;
all stillness and calm eludes one
There is never any wisdom
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem