廣弘明集 23.34

23.34

"In ancient times, high was the king;
Singing of the phoenix by the Yi and Luo.
On the untrammeled road he soared in the clouds;
In the tall chariot cranes called out.
The spiritual fountain flowed through generations;
Secluded recluses arose across eras.
This child who has returned
Straddled antiquity to meet his moment.
With robes gathered up he received the spirit,
Traversed the path and inherited instruction.
Weaving with jade, he was warm;
Measuring with gold, he rang clear.
His years of study were still tender,
His age had just completed its first decade.
His fine virtue having already risen high,
His elegance simply flourished.
A sharp blade for ten thousand generations,
A wind-swept exemplar across a thousand leagues.
Emotional attachments were held light;
Family and state were like weeds.
Discerning was the wise man,
Solitary in unfolding the mysterious treasure.
Guiding all within the seven limbs of awakening,
Flying across the eightfold path.
The Three Rivers were mostly quiet;
Profoundly surpassing Mount Lu.
In a place remote from all things,
His tracks halted in the mystery.
Distantly lofty was his pure wisdom;
Building his lodge, he received the mist.
Foremost leader through the realms of being,
Pathfinder for gods and humans.
Our life is shaped by harmony,
Gathering at that pure breeze.
Karmic streams met auspiciously;
Feelings were stirred in wondrous accord.
The bright sun in early spring;
The white moon at mid-autumn.
His mind was bottomless;
The six directions could be encompassed.
Eminent was that Kumārajīva,
Distinctly superior in the three realms;
Crown of the ultimate and conventional,
Leader of the spiritual path.
If that man echoed in response,
Boarding the carriage, he was right at his heels.
Across deserts weaving the cold,
A long wind carrying snow;
Shaking his sleeves against ice and frost,
Gathering his skirts in the late year.
Who is there now to ask the way?
From afar it rests with the wise.
Zhuangzi’s lapel and Laozi’s sash,
Confucius's thought and the sentiments of Zhou.
A hundred eras seemed as one;
The profound store was uniquely unlocked.
His chest having been filled,
He looked back upon these as mere dregs.
Turning toward this unborn state,
He dwelled mournfully on a mat beneath a tree.
Wondrously entering the center of the ring,
The Way transcends physical form.
Such indeed was that person,
Uniquely illuminating the mysterious path.
Wisdom empty of emotion,
It truly illuminated their marks.
Arising, abiding, and non-abiding;
Change and destruction pursue one another.
Kumārajīva went to antiquity;
Huiyuan has departed from the present.
Where does Master Shi apply his adze?
Boya has silenced his strings.
Deep grief flees away;
Of old it returned to your heart.
Erasing his footprints on the Eastern Crag,
Retiring his shadow at Ruoye.
Early curtains at the head of the wind;
Spring mats in the curve of the clouds.
Grass gathered in the courtyards with streams;
Surging shores harboring waves.
A moonlit veranda to the east stood eminent;
The setting sun sank in western beauty.
In emotional pacing he never relented;
His lying down and rising were elevated and rare.
White clouds looked upon his conduct;
Pure winds refined his discipline.
Structuring the five destinies,
Holding the scales for the six realms.
The four truths gather reflections;
The three vehicles unite the paths.
Arising and ceasing reside in dharmas;
All conditioned things are difficult to keep constant.
The wise man’s firewood is consumed;
The ancient fire has moved its light.
The bright sun plunges into darkness;
In mid-spring frost arises.
Alas, how mournful!
In the past, when my hair was still bound,
Early on I feasted with his pure robe.
Sending off my intentions, I lamented the passing years;
Welcoming his resonance was my mind.
My family was poor and my parents old;
Farming, yet not having enough to eat.
Answering the summons to pursue joy,
My person was plain, solitary, and weak.
Already separated in physical form,
In vain we communicated through the Way.
Ever since I fell ill,
I resided in the tall lodge on Eastern Mountain.
Along the clear moon’s path it was quiet;
Along the white clouds' road it was peaceful.
Catching the pines, I let out a whistle;
Above the wind, I voiced my words.
Alas, my Lord Dai!
Living in the wind, cool and steep.
Pausing at the lodge for that person,
Pouring out his heart to savor the resonance.
How could this noble expectation
Be separated into darkness and light?
The five strings have lost their play;
Who now pours the wine of three measures?
Alas, how mournful!
Mountain and spring both cease together;
Pines and bamboo are mournful and cold.
An autumn morning of frost and dew;
A cold night, rigorous and long.
Alas, how mournful!
The solitary ape will voice its longing;
The wandering wild geese cry in season.
Broadly opening the nature of dharmas,
Who is there without feeling?
Terraces in row have turned to grass;
Adjacent lodges bring only sorrow.
Life and death have taken their turns;
The sights of the world are in lasting decline.
Alas, how mournful!
The common people have lost their guide;
The ten thousand things have nowhere to turn.
The yin soul enters the night;
The pure yang suddenly loses its brightness.
Alas, how mournful!
Oh, the boundless expanse in all four directions!
How my heart is struck with deep sorrow!
Although tears have their cause when they fall,
Grief indeed arrives without an omen.
Concealing long thoughts to sigh in lamentation,
Truly it spills over beyond words.
Alas, how mournful!"