The mountain hues are deep and somber,
Pine mist thickly veils.
Beneath the empty woods,
Lies a broad, flat stone.
Upon the stone, a monk,
Cross-legged, knee horizontal.
Recites the Lotus Sutra,
From dawn until dusk.
To the left, to the right,
Tracks of tiger and wolf.
Ten petals, five petals,
Strange flowers strewn about.
We meet by chance,
Not deeply acquainted.
Is he a man of old,
Or of today? Is he Tanyan,
Or is he Tanyi?
I hear this sutra holds profound meaning,
The Awakened Lord praised its wondrous truth.
I close my eyes, calm my mind, listen carefully,
As ghee drips into my parched guts.
The Buddha's intent, the Patriarchs' marrow,
My own heart, the sutra's essential meaning.
Alas, a snap of fingers or raising a hand,
Fails to reach what is right before me, right now.
Vast indeed! How extraordinary!
The King of Emptiness wishes all beings to attain.
Its radiance illumines eighteen thousand lands,
Each land turning to the color of gold.
The four births and six paths are in a single light.
Yet the deluded man still asks Maitreya.
I too, in those years, studied emptiness and stillness,
Thinking once attaining no-mind, I could rest.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
I realize riding a donkey was not the true path.
I too, in those years, did not leave my door,
Wishing not to let worldly dust stain my steps.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
I realize every step is a treasure ground.
I too, in those years, loved to chant poems,
Thinking deep searching disturbed spiritual calm.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
Why not let brush and inkstone aid my true nature?
I too, in those years, dallied in childish play,
Thinking half my time was vainly wasted.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
I realize gathering sand is no small matter.
I once traveled among mountains and waters,
Thinking other mountains were not my homeland.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
I realize mountains and rivers hold not an inch of ground.
In the past, my monkey-mind was not tamed,
Often vainly restrained by a golden lock.
Today, hearing this sutra chanted in person,
I realize there is nothing to grasp as a fist.
The master chants this sutra, word by word,
Each word fully savored, the taste of ghee.
The taste of ghee is precious and fine,
Not on the lips,
Not on the teeth,
Only within the square inch of the toiling heart.
The master chants this sutra, line by line,
Each line like the white ox personally moving its steps.
The steps of the white ox are swift as wind,
Not in the west,
Not in the east,
Only within the daily activities of floating life.
In daily use, unaware, how bitter!
Gut of wine,
Belly of rice,
The elder calls aloud, but they do not turn back.
No different from deaf,
No different from blind.
People's ears are not unsharp,
But their sharp ears are deaf to the sutra.
People's eyes are not unclear,
But their clear eyes are blind to the sutra.
Should hear but do not hear,
Should see but do not see.
Like a well-bucket going up and down,
They die in vain, live in emptiness.
Even if people recognize the master's voice,
Who can recognize the master's heart?
Even if people recognize the master's form,
Who can recognize the master's name?
The master's name is Healing King, acting on Buddha's order,
Coming to cure living beings' heart-sickness.
Able to make the confused awaken,
The frenzied calm,
The defiled pure,
The crooked straight,
The ordinary sage-like.
If so, then not only do the heavens revere,
People revere,
And also dragons praise,
Ghosts praise,
Buddhas praise.
How can those who turn from awakening to join the dust,
Not bow their heads and submit?