As all things are Buddha-Dharma, There are delusion, realization, practice, birth and death, buddhas and sentient beings. As myriad things are without an abiding self, There is no delusion, no realization, no buddha, no sentient being, no birth and death. The buddha way, in essence, Is leaping clear of abundance and lack; thus there are birth and death, delusion and realization, sentient beings and buddhas. Yet in attachment blossoms fall, And in aversion weeds spread.
A gentle wind fans the calm night; A bright moon shines on the high tower. A voice whispers, but no one answers when I call: A shadow stirs, but no one comes when I beckon. The kitchen man brings in a dish of lentils: Wine is there, but I do not fill my cup. Contentment with poverty is fortune's best gift: Riches and Honour are the handmaids of Disaster. Though gold and gems by the world are sought and prized, To me they seem no more than weeds or chaff.
A man as old as a dragon bell, I walk slowly to visit a meditation temple, to ask the mean of a good heart. Remotely, I feel the sickness of the void is itself void. Mountains and rivers are in the Buddha's eye, the universe in dharma's body. Don't be surprised that meditation controls hot days and raises wind over the land.
When that beam of light came passing over the sea I as a whiteness was revealed in the dark, and then I saw I was all alone. In the darkened fields the very faintly burning lights of the houses— ah, they are more frail even than the glowing of fireflies. How far will that wild duck still go through evening waves swollen in the open sea where it struggles on alone?
Thirty spokes join together in the hub. It is because of what is not there that the cart is useful. Clay is formed into a vessel. It is because of its emptiness that the vessel is useful. Cut doors and windows to make a room. It is because of its emptiness that the room is useful. Therefore, what is present is used for profit.
Pa sheng kan chou . Spattering evening rains sprinkles river and sky Washes clear autumn Soon frost with icy winds will close in On the desolate mountain pass, the deserted river ... Last rays of sun glance off the tower Everywhere red fades, green disappears By turn, what flourished, ends Only the waters of Yanftze flow on Wordlessly, east
I can not bear to climb the high tower, look out Gaze longingly toward home -- dim and distant But to stop my thoughts from going back is hard I wonder at my path in recent years -- Why have I lingered, miserable Aware that in her room she has looked up -- How many times -- and thought she saw my boat on the horizon? And never known that I lean here Congealed with sorrow?