Daolang dwells on Tai Mountain, Bodhidharma stayed at Xiong'er.
Holding the cool moon in hand, divine light floods heaven and earth.
All ride golden lions, departed from this world long ago.
My master hides at Mount Lu, external thoughts wholly carved away.
Casting aside Confucius's sun and moon, matching the Empty King's bellows.
Once ascended Linde Hall, discoursed on Non-attachment.
Offered a three-zhu robe but declined to wear, only longing for Red Spring and White Stone Pavilion.
Following Pei Kai, left the capital's outskirts, lately settled near Kuang and Huo.
A thousand-fathom waterfall spews cold mist, a sandalwood branch perches a lean crane.
Old friend at Xianshou keeps pure faith, a thousand letters, none answered.
Humble I was once your disciple, knocking on mystery, wearing kindness boundless.
I pity myself, also a lion's cub, not past three years could I frown and sigh.
Since the assembly dispersed and I returned home, who in the streamside temple is now close?
Green mountains, ancient trees merge with white waves, Red Pine Taoist is my eastern neighbor.
Burning incense, gazing west, feeling limitless,不及昙诜, tears fall in vain.
The prefect of Tongjiang, a man of our community, still sends Xi Chao a thousand dan of rice.
Precious books hastily closed, revising phrases, an empty letter from afar—what use?
Finally must find one to replace the snake-warder, not yet understanding how to melt spirit from emptiness and stillness.