My Tang has a monk named Qiji,
Before leaving home, he had a minister's caliber.
Then he dreamed of meeting the Five Strongmen,
Ruined his form, self-learned the truth of non-life.
Bony, spirit-clear, a breeze fills his robe,
Old pine in frosty sky, crane deeply ill.
One phrase enlightens him to the sea of life and death,
The lotus flower spews forth a glazed heart.
Distressed to see Tang's elegance lacking,
He knocks through the icy sky, flying white snow.
Clear frontier, clear river yet have soul,
Leftover spirit weeps facing the moon over wilds.
How ancient his style! Before Heaven's work, who knew the master?
Chaos was chiseled open, egg-yolk yellow,
Scattering into pure wind bitter as gall.
How fresh his ideas! The Weaving Maid's star-loom picks white clouds,
The True Ruler comes at night to tune warm pitches,
Each note blowing out tender youth.
How elegant his tone! Lone pine in ravine bottom, autumn rain sprinkles,
Chang'e in the moon learns to walk the void,
Cassia wind blows her down beneath Jade Mountain.
How wondrous his words! Blood splashes heaven and earth when dragons war,
The Ancestral Dragon strides the sea as sun just rises,
One whip of wind and rain, ten thousand mountains fly.
Master Ji, Master Ji, your Way is like this,
Vast within the cosmos, as if alone.
A mat of pine wind cold as ice,
Long accompanies Chao and You, stretching legs to sleep.