The four callings do not vie, each diligent and true.
Yet many paths one may stray, to alien things anew.
The first intent thus confounds, the old gait falters slow.
Once loosed, it cannot be bound, like a boat cut free to go.
And more so for Buddha's kin, who left home young and pure.
Knowing not of plough or loom, with incense sparse and poor.
Why then forsake the self's field, to weed another's ground?
With brush and ink, paintings fade; verses steal spring's bright sound.
Holding these to seek the grand, often for pity they plea.
The great matter still unclear, mouth agape, nose raised high.
Have you not seen masters like Tang Xiu, whose talent fame did decree?
Form decays and so does mind, sick, they return to earth's sigh.
Your nature is unrefined gold, by no skilled hand yet wrought.
Misled by a thirst for fame, in poetry's depths you're caught.
A hair's breadth leads a thousand miles astray, a wanderer ten years in vain.
Though my words are oft bitter, you turn your head, disdain.
Lately, your mind's eye has opened, old learnings all cast aside.
To green hills you'll retreat and hide, seeking a master, peace to abide.
Hearing this, I'm glad yet doubt; this resolve, I trust, will stay.
I go with no gift to send, but this short verse as token to pay.