In the early Shaoxing era of Guangzhi, there was a monk, the Pure Chief Seat.
He also had some Chan learning, not just strict sutra recitation.
My grandfather knew this man, revered him like Bodhidharma.
Invited him back for fragrant meals, occasionally visited in leisure.
Grandfather was already old then, with no grandson to till the fields.
This worry ever in his heart, he dared not speak to others.
The monk happened to hear it, had him pray before Buddha.
And said: Master Shao, his practice site is at Jade Spring.
For mortals seeking children, like Guanyin answering prayers.
Grandfather then agreed to go, this monk suddenly joyful.
That evening the monk sat and passed, leaving a verse all transmitted.
Grandfather burned incense and bowed: 'Will you not keep your promise?'
'Your spirit surely not dimmed, please let me go with you.'
Grandfather, as if the master lived, bowed and followed his steps.
On arrival, an immediate sign: banner tips turning ceaseless.
Soon after, an auspicious divination: a grandson born near year's end.
People say the grandson born was the master's former life.
Coming and going, nowhere to verify; truth or falsehood, hardly worth debate.
The knowing hear it and laugh; the foolish take it as true.
Pitiful child of the Teng clan, a life of constant hardship.
Late fleeing Confucian ways for Buddha, both paths unawakened.
If indeed he is that monk, then surely his path went astray.
Let me just complete this poem, leave others to praise or blame.