Wet:

"The Flower Monk Masturbates Himself"

- Author: Laughing and withering

Escape into the empty door and the flowers are deepening, and the bright moon looks at me Mo going up;

The passing years live up to the home, and the pace is faltering.

If you come to laugh at my heart, Amitabha Buddha is what I hear;

The empty color does not see the Bodhi tree, and the broom is clear.