I built a thatched hut, no treasures inside.
After meals, leisurely seeking sound sleep.
When new, the thatch was fresh.
When broken, still mended with thatch.
The hut dweller
Is ever-present,
Belonging not to middle, inside, or out.
Where others dwell,
I do not dwell.
What the world loves, I do not love.
The hut is small,
Yet contains the Dharma realm.
The abbot understands this essence.
Superior Bodhisattvas believe without doubt.
The middling and lowly hear it and will surely find it strange.
Ask of this hut:
Does it decay or not?
Whether it decays or not, the Master remains.
It dwells not in south, north, east, or west.
Its foundation's firmness is paramount.
Under green pines,
Within bright windows,
Jade halls and vermilion towers are no match.
With robe and head covered, all affairs cease.
At this moment, the mountain monk knows nothing.
Dwelling in this hut,
Cease making interpretations.
Who boasts of their mat, hoping to sell?
Turn the light inward, reflect, and return.
The vast spiritual root knows no facing or turning away.
Meeting the Patriarch,
Receiving personal instruction:
"Build a thatched hut, do not retreat."
A hundred years cast aside, act freely.
Wave your hand and depart, without fault.
A thousand sayings,
Ten thousand explanations—
Only to make you forever not understand.
If you wish to know the deathless one in the hut,
How could it be separate from this present skin-bag?