宏智禪師廣錄 8.171

8.171

Wind rises from the base of the sands; goosebumps turn stiff on the skin;
Coldly immersing the star-stones, the waters curve in bays.
Boarding the boat wishing to cross beneath eaves and windows,
Leaning on the balustrade, one truly suspects oneself to be amidst a painting.
Clouds wipe the mountain face, a screen of blue jade;
The sun floats upon the river surface, a ring of purple gold.
Turning my head, the Five Elders beckon to me;
Forest friends, do not mind a knock at the gate at night.