殿阴古杉高百尺,苍弁虬髯森淀漆。
林深化蝶粉光冷,威凤飘飖感仙实。
旁有聋僧唤不闻,嗫嗫枯吟如有失。
或时兀坐何堆豗,或时手把古书帙。
帙中明星不复记,案上吟篇已亡律。
居山六月不知暑,地凉艳草生幽苾。
茶灶泥崩古藓黏,石盆仰地莲花出。
山童昼睡靠其旁,袴如盘络不掩膝。
僧今老矣无别怀,时梦响潭清汩汩。
终当卜室居其偏,坐看蜿蜒舞清溢。
殿阴古杉高百尺,苍弁虬髯森淀漆。
林深化蝶粉光冷,威凤飘飖感仙实。
旁有聋僧唤不闻,嗫嗫枯吟如有失。
或时兀坐何堆豗,或时手把古书帙。
帙中明星不复记,案上吟篇已亡律。
居山六月不知暑,地凉艳草生幽苾。
茶灶泥崩古藓黏,石盆仰地莲花出。
山童昼睡靠其旁,袴如盘络不掩膝。
僧今老矣无别怀,时梦响潭清汩汩。
终当卜室居其偏,坐看蜿蜒舞清溢。
殿宇的阴凉处,一棵古杉高达百尺,
苍翠的树冠与盘曲的枝干,如森然漆色般沉郁。
林木幽深,幻化的蝶粉闪着寒光,
威仪的凤凰飘摇飞舞,感受着仙界的果实。
旁边有位耳聋的僧人,呼唤他也听不见,
他喃喃低语着枯涩的吟诵,仿佛若有所失。
有时他兀自呆坐,像一堆沉寂的土石,
有时他手中拿着古旧的书籍。
书卷中记载的明星已不复记忆,
案头上吟咏的诗篇早已失了格律。
居住在山中六月,也不知暑热为何物,
地面清凉,艳丽的野草生出幽静的香气。
煮茶的灶台泥土崩落,古旧的苔藓黏附其上,
石盆仰面朝天,莲花从中生长而出。
山童在白天靠在他身旁睡觉,
裤子像盘绕的藤络,遮不住膝盖。
僧人如今老了,没有别的牵挂,
时常梦见响潭清澈的流水声汩汩不绝。
终将要在那附近择地筑室而居,
坐着看蜿蜒的溪水舞动着清波漫溢。
Beneath the hall, an ancient fir a hundred feet tall,
Its dark crown and coiling beard, a somber, lacquered pall.
In deep woods, transformed butterflies gleam with a cold light,
The majestic phoenix, soaring, feels the immortal's might.
Beside it sits a deaf monk, calling he does not hear,
Muttering dry chants, as if something had disappeared.
Sometimes he sits in silent heap, a pile of solitude,
Sometimes he holds in hand an ancient book, in quietude.
The bright stars within those pages are no longer recalled,
The chants upon his desk have lost the rules they once enthralled.
Living in the mountains for six months, he knows no heat,
The cool earth breeds bright grasses, fragrant and discreet.
The tea stove's clay has crumbled, ancient moss now clings,
A stone basin upturned lets lotus flowers take wings.
A mountain boy naps by his side in daytime's gentle keep,
His trousers like coiled vines, leaving his knees to peep.
The monk is old now, with no other thoughts to hold,
He often dreams of the sounding stream, clear and bold.
He'll finally choose a dwelling by its side to stay,
And watch the winding water dance in pure display.
古木森然如卫士,是时间认同的沉默见证。
刻画古寺殿阴下,古杉苍劲如虬髯的森然景象。
本诗为七言古诗,押平声韵。
东山书院编辑整理