宏智禪師廣錄 9.47

9.47

Dim and boundless— / The shadow of the cold wild goose vanishes, autumn is distant and the mist is blue. / Silent and alert— / The old silkworm finishes its cocoon, the wind is high and the leaves fall. / When the heavenly mechanism is still, it comes alive; / Where the circle of the Way is empty, it is numinous. / Submerged like the ocean, stabilizing like Mount Song; / Strong like Qian, tranquil like Kun. / The sea churns as the peng takes flight with soaring spirit, / And the fish that swallows ships sheds its skin; / The fog parts as the leopard transforms with brilliant markings, / And the tiger roaring at the wind is fierce. / Before the lamp of Shaolin had been continued, / The man of Luoyang stood waist-deep in the snowy courtyard. / When the robe of Huangmei was about to be transmitted, / The wild barbarian ancestor shifted his steps on the pestle and mortar. / When things are not burdened by sentiments, stepping onto the ice is swift; / If a fish burns its tail, the smell of lightning and fire is pungent. / The myriad dust motes tower high in echoes and shadows; / The samādhi sports in beholding and listening. / Halting and limping, his walking is confident of itself; / Stammering and babbling, his words are not taken lightly. / The family tradition is austere; what fine descendants! / His mind is wintry, as pines and cypresses are tested by snow; / His countenance is pure and white, as the River of Stars contains the stars. / The crane calling from the shade is lean yet long-lived; / The turtle nesting in the lotus is small yet ancient. / Before the game of chess disperses, the woodcutter's axe handle has rotted.