虛堂和尚語錄 7.136

7.136

Raising the breath, dark to direction or place,
In vain I am called a monk of the Song land.
A hundred years ought to be thrown away by itself;
How can one rely upon a single meal?
The warm wind sets mountain magpies to fight;
As the mist dissolves, the sharp edges of stones are revealed.
Sharing sweetness with the clouds and waters,
All day long, I let myself be carefree and untrammeled.