In a past life, Sudhana; in this life, Lao Ping,
No place where good friends dwell has he not been.
From ten faiths to practices, vows, and stages profound,
To equal enlightenment, wondrous enlightenment, Dharma gates abound.
In each Dharma gate, a single phrase holds the truth,
Mount Sumeru for a brush, the ocean's ink forsooth.
Writing with strength until the end of time,
Time may end, but the writing will never cease to climb.
How much more the six positions and all Dharmas' might,
Each one beyond the reach of any calculation's light.
Lao Ping, facing this inconceivable scene,
With his third hand grasps the turtle-hand pen, keen.
In a single instant, the great task is done,
From every mote of dust, sutra scrolls are spun.
Three thousand worlds in motes of gathas lie,
One fourfold continent in motes of chapters high.
What Nagarjuna transmitted, yet not fully known,
All now reside within the turning words shown.
Each word neither increases nor does it wane,
Who can recite the gatha of forty-two words plain?
The great treasure lotus suddenly blooms wide,
Layers upon layers of Indra's net, a pure land's tide.
Buddhas and bodhisattvas from ten directions, three times,
Gather at once to bear witness to these rhymes.
Maitreya eloquently praises with skill,
Manjushri joyfully touches the crown, his will.
Daily use, free and unfettered, renews each day,
This body, within it, Samantabhadra's presence holds sway.
If one wishes to know Lao Ping's true frame,
It is Vairocana's inexhaustible treasure, the very same.