I meditate with the Zen mirror at the top of the snowy mountain

The cold wind blows repeatedly
Striking the skin
Cold, penetrating to the bones

Clouds and mist surge beneath my feet
The earth shrinks into
A quiet shadow
Suddenly, the world feels very small

Sunlight falls on my face
Brief and real
Like a
Comfort from the void

I softly chant the Sanskrit mantra
Syllables leaving my lips
Circling in the air
Layer by layer
Dissolving

In the place where the echo disappears
I suddenly understand—
What is called Brahman
Is not an object of thought
But the cold, light, and sound
That are silent at the same time