Returning to the source, all matters cease.
The sun-wheel stands right at noon.
Free as a lion,
Leaning on nothing.
Alone I tread the four peaks' tops,
At ease on the three great roads.
A breath blows birds down,
A groan terrifies beasts.
The trigger set, the arrow easily reaches;
The shadow gone, the hand cannot cover.
Deploying like a skilled craftsman,
Cutting to form the measure.
Cleverly carving ten thousand names,
Returning to the source is still like earth.
Speech secret, sound cut off,
The principle wondrous, words hard to arrange.
Discard the ear, and it becomes deaf;
Take the eye, and it becomes blind.
One arrowhead pierces three passes,
Clearly the path after the arrow.
Pitiful, this great man,
Primordial heaven is the mind's ancestor.