筠州洞山悟本禪師語錄 1.149

1.149

大陽門下，日日三秋，明月堂前，時時九夏。森羅萬象，古佛家風，碧落青霄，道人活計。靈苗瑞草，野父愁芸，露地白牛，牧人懶放。龍吟枯骨，異響難聞，木馬嘶時，何人道聽？夜明簾外，古鏡徒耀，空王殿中，千光那照？澂源湛水，尚棹孤舟，古佛道場，猶乘車子。無影樹下，永劫清涼，觸目荒林，論年放曠。舉足下足，鳥道無殊，坐臥經行，莫非玄路。向道莫去，歸來背父，夜半正明，天曉不露。先行不到，末後甚過，沒底船子，無漏堅固。碧潭水月，隱隱難沈，青山白雲，無根却住。峯巒秀異，鶴不停機，靈木迢然，鳳無依倚。徒敲布鼓，誰是知音，空擊成聲，何人撫掌？胡笳曲子，不墮五音，韻出青霄，任君吹唱。

Beneath the gate of the Great Sun, every day is three months of autumn; before the Hall of the Bright Moon, season after season is ninety days of summer. The myriad forms of the universe are the family style of the ancient Buddhas; the blue sky and green firmament are the livelihood of the person of the Way. Over the wondrous sprouts and auspicious grass, the rustic farmer grieves at weeding; with the white ox on the open ground, the herdsman is too lazy to drive it. The dragon groans from withered bones—a rare sound hard to hear; when the wooden horse neighs, who listens along the way? Outside the luminous screen at night, the ancient mirror shines in vain; inside the hall of the King of Emptiness, how could the thousand rays illuminate? In the clear source and deep water, a solitary boat is still rowed; in the bodhimanda of the ancient Buddhas, a carriage is still ridden. Beneath the shadowless tree, there is coolness for eternal kalpas; gazing at the desolate forest, one is untrammeled through the years. Raising the foot and lowering the foot, there is no difference from the bird's path; sitting, lying down, and circumambulating, none is not the mysterious path. Going toward the Way, do not leave; turning back, you turn your back on your father. In the middle of the night it is truly bright; at daybreak it is not exposed. The one who goes first does not arrive; the one who goes last goes too far. The bottomless boat is firm and without leakage. The moon in the water of the green pool, subtle and dim, is hard to sink; the white clouds on the green mountain, rootless, yet linger. The mountain peaks are singularly lofty, yet the crane does not halt its mechanism; the wondrous tree stands far aloof, yet the phoenix finds no reliance. Striking the cloth drum in vain, who is the connoisseur? Sounding through the void, who claps their hands? The tune of the barbarian reed-pipe does not fall into the five tones; its melody issues into the blue firmament, free for you to play and sing.