I am ill and dislike speech; when guests come, I only exchange cold greetings.
My cheeks and tongue can barely function, let alone engage in literary affairs.
That monk Zong is my old friend; we haven't seen each other for three years.
One day he steps into my door, telling me he will journey south.
I ask where he intends to go, and what reason drives his departure.
He says he is just learning from a teacher, regretting the idle passage of days.
He seeks the doctrines of the Buddha, to beg for truths not yet known to the world.
He'll float his boat on river and sea waves, tread the mountain peaks with sandaled feet.
His path will reach the farthest ends, not to return for years.
He says we once traveled together, so I ought to send him off with words.
Alas, the Buddha's teachings and our learning are two paths that never fully merge.
Now that you and I meet, it's like carts heading east and west.
We rest together midway, meeting by chance and lingering awhile.
My carriage aims for distant lands; your drive is also swift and strong.
I will never follow your way, nor will you ever turn back to mine.
Each strives hard at his own task, growing farther apart with each day.
He also brings out his writings, asking me to weigh and judge them.
Gleaming, he plucks their essence; radiant, they shine through every page.
A pity he lacked a master's guidance, like pearls no one could pierce and string.
Though he possesses treasurable gifts, in the end they're discarded as useless.
When I read the books of the ancients, I find it was not always so.
Virtue and morality flourish within, and words merely aid their expression.
How can one pull up the root and yet expect the flower to be plucked?
Not knowing the source from which it flows, what use is following the stream?
If one's talent does not grow long, gaining a little should suffice for focus.
The Six Classics and the writings of the masters—their governance is enough to observe.
Living in the age of sages, learners come in tens of thousands.
Only Yan Hui came close to perfection; others could not match his shoulders.
Some grow old in their practice, yet never hear of escaping Heaven's way.
Why do you not follow this path, instead clinging to heterodox doctrines?
Not thinking to free yourself from bonds, you seek to entangle the world as well.
I often observe your disciples, ashamed even before their wives and children.
Those tonsured monks feel shame, yet you take it for joy and delight.
Abandoning the care of living parents, scholars may whip you for it.
If they acted so, they'd meet punishment; you return and call yourself worthy.
Where shame and disgust do not reside, what can your doctrine claim first?
I wish to reclaim your person, undo the ties that bind you.
Bathe you in clear, cool waves, adorn you with orchids and aromatic herbs.
Follow the middle path together, block the deviations to other ways.
I love you and hope you'll listen; if not, it would be truly pitiful.