明覺禪師語錄 5.93

5.93

The shadows of border geese slant,
The sound of the cold cicada is hurried.
Availing themselves of the season, the robe-clad ones
Part far from the crags and valleys.
The forest is startled by a single leaf as a gentle breeze touches the sleeve;
Water chills a hundred streams as a sliver of the moon enters the eyes.
I thereby recall the old teacher Xianggu once sending someone off:
Walking, walking, not saying to pull out the golden arrowhead.