When I fraternize with you wise friend
I forget my age
One evening, thought stirring
Body tired, fist for a pillow,
I saw you clearly in a dream
Near the hearth;
Listening to the snow
We were talking Zen.
I sit in a rectangular room
on a chair with an iffy piston
I live in a flat land
there are no mountains
and snow is rare
we do have owls, though
thank you, rookie
(not saying you're an owl, btw)
Without a jot of ambition left
I let my nature flow where it will.
There are ten days of rice in my bag
And, by the hearth,
A bundle of firewood.
Who prattles of illusion or nirvana?
Forgetting the equal dusts of
Name or fortune,
Listening to the night rain
On the roof of my hut,
I sit at ease,
Both legs stretched out.
Firm on the seven Buddhas' cushion,
Center, center.
Here's the armrest
My master handed down.
Now, to it!
Head up, eyes straight,
Ears in line with shoulders.
I've crossed the sea after Truth,
Knowledge, that snare, must be defied.
Here and there,
I've worn out heaps of sandals.
Now, moonlit water in the clear abyss.
This cold night bamboos stir,
Their sound—now harsh, now soft
Sweeps through the lattice window.
Though ear's no match for mind,
What need, by lamplight,
Of a single scripture leaf?