虛堂和尚語錄 10.87

10.87

Elder Xuepeng Ming and I have associated for days; from Yuwang to Dongshan, beneath the eaves for guests, it was warm as spring—this was the power of this elder. At Nanping he occupied the first seat; suddenly he received the honor of public selection at Lake Dian; two years later, he again held a fine assembly at Shuangjing, still returning to the first seat, and all hearts rejoiced. Now, receiving the imperial order, he departs afar for Guangxiao in Hexing. At the crossroads I briefly express a few words to serve as a farewell send-off: having not a spot of ground to stand an awl, in vain his two eyes cover heaven and earth; blowing an iron flute crosswise, he has the spirit to swallow the Yunmeng Marsh. The misty waves are vast and hazy; the magnolia oars linger close; snowy reeds and frosted rushes are cold and well-suited. How many times did he roll them up to face the moon at leisure? In the depths of Lake Yuan, there is no need to dangle a fishing line; at the head of the Changshui River, brocade-scaled fish are naturally obtained. How shall I impart the parting phrase? The wind flutters, blowing the robe; the water chills, murmuring poetry. Written in the ninth month of autumn in the wuchen year of the Xianchun reign by the old monk Xutang at the Pavilion of Immobility, in his eighty-fourth year.