The Iron Bamboo Song by Monk Pu'an
Even the Ten Sages and Three Worthies could do nothing about it.
Its nine joints, delicate and clear, connect to the Dharma realm, not relying on common bamboo shoots to make a clamor.
Tempered a hundred times, already polished, it can block fierce winds and calm the sea's waves.
Evil dragons gathering poison—all are subdued by me; fierce tigers surrendering—how could it be anyone else?
In the worldly and beyond-worldly realms, nothing compares; neither ordinary nor sage-like, its power is Maha.
The Moye sword, compared to Heaven's spear, the birth and death of forms exhausts much energy.
Only this one thing, unyielding and unbreakable, props up heaven and earth, responding to Samadhi.
The body pure and luminous, the mind in Mandala, not by the eye, ear, or nose, the six penetrations harmonize.
How can the fleshly eye bear to see? Even the heavenly eye of the Two Vehicles is still mistaken.
Old man Deshan, yet acting like a doting wife, the vertical and horizontal sect's style is full of Prajna.
Rarely meeting such a person, hard to know how to proceed; to this day, he stands alone, towering and majestic.
Do you not see? Do not let time slip by!
Turning stone to gold—that is also him.
Shouldering a thousand million chestnuts, understanding how to swallow iron bamboo, one may pass by.
Before the mouth moves, all is shattered to pieces; how could it be like the fox clan singing rustic songs?
Aiding the Way in accord with Heaven, the merit is not small; it only wishes to free people from the demon of death.
Murmuring and understanding speech, not relying on the tongue; entering water, how could it ever disturb the blue waves?
The Iron Bamboo itself sings thus, the sound of ocean tides penetrates, laughing heartily.