For such as, reflecting within themselves, Testify to the truth of Self-nature, To the truth that Self-nature is no-nature, They have really gone beyond the ken of sophistry. For them opens the gate of the oneness of cause and effect, And straight runs the path of non-duality and non-trinity. Abiding with the not-particular which is in particulars, Whether going or returning, they remain for ever unmoved; Taking hold of the not-thought which lies in thoughts, In every act of theirs they hear the voice of the truth.
Being and non-being produce each other. Difficulty and ease bring about each other. Long and short delimit each other. High and low rest on each other. Sound and voice harmonize each other. Front and back follow each other.
Therefore the sage abides in the condition of unattached action. And carries out the wordless teaching. Here, the myriad things are made, yet not separated.
Mountain fruit drop in the rain and grass insects sing under my oil lamp. White hair, after all, can never change as yellow gold cannot be created. If you want to know how to get rid of age, its sickness, study nonbeing.
A serving of snow in a silver bowl, Or herons concealed in the glare of the moon Apart, they seem similar, together, they're different. Meaning cannot rest in words, It adapts itself to that which arises. Tremble and you're lost in a trap, Miss and there's always regrets.
After the new rain in the secluded mountains, It is getting cool, with an autumn message arriving at dusk. The bright moon shines through the pines, The clear stream flows over the rocks. A stir in the bamboo groves -- the washing women come home as the swaying lotus leaves usher in fishing boats down the stream. The spring splendor fading, the mountains remain as an appealing abode to me.
Master, I am new here. What is your teaching? "Have you already eaten your gruel?" Yes. "Go wash your bowl." Master, what more can you teach me? "ABCDEF." I do not understand. "GHIJKL." Thank you, Master.
Disappearance . The leaf tips bend under the weight of dew. Fruits are ripening in Earth's early morning. Daffodils light up in the sun. The curtain of cloud at the gateway of the garden path begins to shift: have pity for childhood, the way of illusion.
Late at night, the candle gutters. In some distant desert, a flower opens. And somewhere else, a cold aster that never knew a cassava patch or gardens of areca palms, never knew the joy of life, at that instant disappears- man's eternal yearning.
If you want to be free, Get to know your real self. It has no form, no appearance, No root, no basis, no abode, But is lively and buoyant. It responds with versatile facility, But its function cannot be located. Therefore when you look for it, You become further from it; When you seek it, You turn away from it all the more.
Old Pan Kou knows nothing about time and nothing about space has well. His life is self-natured and self-sufficient. He needs to ask for nothing outside of his own being. The genesis of the world is the exercise of his mind. When his mind starts to think, the world starts to move. The world has never been made by any special desing. Neither has an end ever been put to it.
Chrysanthemums scattering in a rising autumn wind, Lotus blooms, rarer now, jade dewdrop-pearled. Heralding the autumn, lines of wild geese flying; Departed is the summer, in the trees only a few cicadas. Cloud-mists freeze, glooming half the hills; Crimson clouds ravel, lacing the high heavens; As if from Chengdu my eyes look up And there before me stands Omei.