宏智禪師廣錄 8.177

8.177

A single staff flies from the home grove;
Where food is cooked, faint blue smoke rises.
In stern silence, rising from the meditation bench;
Empty and open, turning the mechanism of transformation.
The stream is cold; autumn dyes its color;
The moon is chilling; the night pours forth radiance.
Do not imitate Liang of the Western Mountain;
On this journey, you should return early.