廣弘明集 30.24

30.24

The soaring luan cries on the crags of Kunlun; / Its lofty intention ascends into the dark void.
In a blur, turning its spiritual plumage, / Resting its shoulders, it perches at the southern corner.
Washing its feet in the diminished billows, / It picks white silk and pecks divine herbs.
Chanting aloud, it rinses its mouth with fragrant wine; / Flying up and down, it climbs the divine parasol tree.
Rustling, it raises its bright wings; / Remotely, it nurtures its pure body.
Long contemplating the pacification of mysterious cycles, / It bows its head, awaiting the spiritual tally.
The river running clear may indeed be hoped for; / But folding one's wings makes one weary.