This mountain monk who delights in the Way is free by nature,
He lets heaven revolve and earth turn as they will.
At leisure I lie on a lone peak, without companion,
Singing alone a song of the Unborn.
The song of the Unborn, the joy beyond the world—
Laughable how people of the time cannot grasp it.
With unhindered feeling, delighting in the Way, I pass my remaining years,
Utterly forgetting all the Zhangs and Lis.
A true man must have spirit and bearing,
Neither follow worldly feelings nor create obstructions.
You say compliance is Bodhi,
But I say from the start they've been opposed.
Sometimes foolish, sometimes silly—
How could those not on my path ever know?
Through a life of exceptional understanding, I always follow fate,
A wild guest with no hometown to return to.
Today this mountain monk is just this,
Originally a mountain monk, what more should I be?
Probe the ancestral pivot, son of emptiness,
Don't be like drifting clouds, don't lean and rely.
Since ancient times, always clad in a patched robe,
Having endured many times of cold and heat.
It's not real, it's not false—
Beat the drum, please the spirits, perform bows and kneels.
Clearly a single stretch of Han River cloud,
Not the same as green mountains and clear waters.
Innate nature formed, with nothing to wipe away or change,
Interlocking angles and whorls do not hinder each other.
Sometimes apply a heart of compassion, joy, and giving,
Or just meet people with a staff to jolt them.
Compassion and affection fall into entanglement,
The staff strikes to break that affection.
I tell you, traveler under the moon,
If you have attachments, I will change them for you.