明覺禪師語錄 5.97

5.97

How soughing is the spring wind!
Joined by rain and mingled with snow.
Its merit in plucking flowers is not yet deep;
Its power in flattening grasses was once fierce.
The old man of foolish attachment in Vaiśālī,
Fearing the cold, faces plain simplicity.
The men of echo and shadow of Xiang crag
Are difficult to control, alike in solitary wretchedness.
No one comes from Turtle Peak;
The brushwood gate also need not be closed.
Squirrels descend from the pine tops,
Now and then gnawing at the rattan couch.
Frosty birds return to the courtyard,
Repeatedly pecking at the broken moss coins.
Once the spring wind ceases,
The warm sun arises in the woods and groves.
Upon the flat boulders of the secluded path,
Staff in hand, I walk and rest.
When there are no strings, do not play;
When there are words, preserve the tongue.
The desolate sound of flowing water—
How could the ancients speak of it?
The withered trees of early plums—
How can they be parted from today?
Looking down and up, my body's strength is light;
I instead recall the spring wind intensely:
Blow away the dust for me, for I wish to mend the diverging tracks;
Blow away the clouds for me, for I wish to ask of the moon in the distant sky.
I know not, between heaven and earth,
Who is worthy to form a bond with?