No rain dark grass embankment village, I do not know Monastery tall bamboo door. Found sick pay monk boiled medicine pity, sweeping the net off the soul of incense. Off-farm work did not invade snow, Buddha lamp reported early evening. Years to gradually identify house arrest taste, and an expert on the couch thinking of. Mighty hills, long suspected of bells and drums, this recession is the natural habitat. Begging around the village really is full, silent on the non-Buddhist visitors. Red mud into the Phi hazel Milu, close enough to listen to the rain washing sleep. Way back back poor Chia Tao, Ye Han Song poetry should shoulder.