Table of Contents
Preface: 109.5° 48 + 1 The Outer Chapter
Book 1 The Scroll of Life
Book 2 2002 Dragon Boat Crossing Over
Book 3 Book in the Sky
Book 4 Sigh of the Minnow under 3,000 Lotus Flowers
Book 5 Ancient Stone Stairway
Book 6 Record of the Phantom City
Book 7 Mountain Weave
Book 8 Seven-stringed Lapis Lazuli Qin of the sea
Book 9 Dreaming in a Nine-dimensional Illusion and a Moonlight Pantomime
Book 10 Same Breath as You
​Book 11 Legend of the Fire Seed of the Sun
Book 12 Hometown of the Rock




Preface
109.5° 48 + 1 The Outer Chapter

A night flight, 13 hours;
Departing from Hong Kong at midnight, reaching Zurich at 6.00 a.m.
Observing the sunset from the freeway in Taipei on the fifth day of Frost Descends;
Switzerland, on the sixth day of Frost Descends; pre-dawn,
six speeding wheels carrying 21 travelers.
On the eve of the Birth of Winter, I arrange the 24 solar terms,
An unknown, unnamed spirit mysteriously
moving man through his eternal game of joy and sorrow.
In childhood, climbing up a rope ladder to a red-tiled roof, waiting on the sunrise.
That same spirit of discovery from decades ago
is here amongst the Swiss mountains and lakes.
It’s said that only after the requisite pure and excellent causes and conditions
Are cultivated over a hundred aeons can the 32 primary and 80 subsidiary marks of a Great Man be brought to perfection.
In addition to its primary purpose of shielding the eye from dust and sand, the eyelash also serves as an adornment.
The eagle builds its nest on the side of a cliff to facilitate flight amongst the clouds.
These ancient villages; why where they established on the margins of the Milky Way?
The universe holds up a dew pan Who is it?
collecting innumerable microorganisms?
a silently turning wheel conveying common folk to that yonder emptiness.
All we can do is wait for the heart-mind of the bodhisattva to lovingly convey all sentient beings
to the bountiful Flower-adornment realm.

From Grindelwald a deep gorge
leads to an ancient blue ice-cave.
Bordered by embroidered glaciers,
late at night the moon descends into the mountain void.
A lone white horse gallops through the silvery realm;
A silver crane with a white swan circles above.
The universe innumerable galaxies spinning in space;
The world with its invisible hourglass, ever flowing.
Who can take a beam of moonlight and set in motion the wheel of time
setting its gears—more numerous than the grains of sands in the Ganges—onto a fingertip?
Vowing today to bring peace to the entire family,
Tonight’s choreographer puts emotion and consciousness in charge,
Each thought following the habitual flow.
The glorious pageant of nature played out on the open-air stage,
Yet the limited vision of the worldling perceives not all these epiphanies.
A leaf falls a bird flies over,
right there then gone.
Earth, ever renewed in the flow of the seasons;
The phases of the moon modulate the hue of the night sky.
A chilling north wind presses the withered branches;
Life renewed under the balmy spring sun.
Defilements and obstacles lead to compassion, but are not in harmony with original awakening;
Whatever obstructs the light of wisdom is out of tune with the true appearance of life.


A single stalk of bamboo woven into a steamer;
A blaze of fire fills the sky.
An old man asleep next to the river going with the flow;
Near the bank, an old man in a boat, hands by his side, fishing in the twilight.
Tonight blazing candlelight in a circuitous garden,
lamps and stars throughout.
The autumn mountain, reddish-purple, yellow chrysanthemums arrayed on rows of seven-jeweled trees.
Rainbow-like clouds covering a screen of deep blue-green.
Thinking of him recollecting him visualizing him,
He appears in the setting sun.


Jungfraujoch, a pristine peak at 4,158 meters;
milky-white, wavering in the moonlit clouds;
like pure vision expelling distorted perceptions.
Those extraordinary precincts of day and night
produced by those subtle-form beings of the liminal world.
A thatch-roofed pavilion at the summit,
where farmers from the ancient village take shelter from the rain.
From the footprints left in the mud they can make out the state of mind of passers-by:
“That one off in the distance; his mind is unsettled his thoughts are fluttering about.”
The bestower of dreams tells him a story;
A true story not a myth.
There was once a little girl.
While chasing an illusion
She got lost in a wooded valley,
Where she happened upon the hermit who lived in the Baihua Pavilion.
He led her to a grass hut where she could safely pass the night;
yet she was worried—
That night the tears of all the mothers in the world
sparkled with compassion;
gleamed with unbounded commiseration . . .
It’s not a true story just a myth;
Born of a dream,
Returning to the dream.

The fringes of the Jungfrau
Lazily flutter down to Interlaken,
Like a cosmic fountain streaming upwards.
Those who wish to enter
must first shed all obstructions of body and mind.
A white feather falls onto a green path;
Cold weather, frozen ground withered grass of ignorance sealed inside the ice.
A mountain valley, cold and silvery white Grandma Incense,
as always, weaves embroidered blessings for the Wanderer;
Touched, the Traveler sheds warm tears.
The God of Night repeatedly calls out in the darkness;
but the habitually drunken Vagrant has never responded.
Ignorant of material form, one devours the sparse twinkling stars;
A Cliffside cave with a cryptic image of an elephant from three millennia ago;
A boy spontaneously enters into samadhi single thought, single moment, single place,
Reading that scripture of unlimited wisdom ensconced within his self-nature.
Ten fingers with whirling webs containing the mysterious cause of endless rebirth,
a light proceeds from between the eyebrows, illuminates the triple world, then returns.
A faint candlelight flitters in the guest room,
where the Wanderer suddenly turns around and collides with his former self.
This high mountain, snowbound throughout the year;
I visit the old camera museum in Veyvey,
Finding no trace of the past. . .



Mid-autumn a traveling photographer with zoom lens
Enters the forest in search of the dazzling deep red of Frost Descends.
Proceeding upwards to a glacier;
Bounded by grassy meadows a thousand peaks shrouded in mist and fog,
watering the vines in the dense forest.
A promise from three decades ago reverberates in the heart and throughout the valley.
No fear of that tempest which continued for seven days and nights,
Fog filling the horizon.
Biefeng as always the eternal goal of the great caravan leader of supreme knowledge;
The song of Yuyuan arises from that side of the dream—
A novel joy and brightness fully enters the soul,
On the west bank flames rise up from the corners of a chessboard,
like the oblique light of the setting sun.
Birds leisurely roaming the skies fish sauntering in the water;
In the mountain valley a seven-colored lake serves as the bathhouse of the gods.
By day a sunflower at night a mesmerizing poppy flower;
Lively, subtle objects emitting light and shadow in space;
A melancholy expression, unable to break through the ancient gloom;
Wallowing in the mire of defilements and fear, ever fooled by erroneous notions.
Who is so fond of packaging these moods and carrying them around?
The mind contains innumerable amazing elements;
It’s said that the smile of a newborn baby gives birth to ten thousand wonderful sights.
A wise yi bird guides an ancient arched ship;
throughout the mountains, lakes, and seas,
Wings following the red glow of the setting sun.
Immersed in such agitating turmoil, how can anyone be free of fear?
Carried by its mother in a basket, an infant smiles at the vault of heaven;
The agile little girl sprints across the street
To buy a flower for her new classmate.

Trümmelhach waterfall;
melting glacier producing 20,000 tons of water.
Deluding sights and sounds a spiritual shield blocks covetous thoughts;
Enticing sounds and sights a spiritual spear instantly brings one of good heart.
Fond of the west wind, the leaf holds onto the branch;
Following several storms it follows the glittering dew into the mud.
A perilous path, indistinct, anxious
about the chasms.
Who can roll away all the dark veils obscuring the mirror-bright mind,
to illuminate the original face?
Switzerland, the homeland of lakes and mountains;
Purple maples and yellow chrysanthemums, the true appearance of Frost Descends.
Streetlights, the eyes of the earth;
Still on the road, the Traveler looks around and asks:
“Where shall we spend the night?”
Muddled mood spirit sleepwalking at midnight;
Twisted dreams roaming spirit by day.
Presently who is watching over this lovely and majestic nation?


What forces of karma pertain,
Power of the pure mind, to put up such railings?
Ridges of snow-covered roofs,
Waiting for some inspiring nursery rhyme.
Inside the music box, the tympanic music king eager to search
the road to Sainte-Croix, passing through the Jura Mountains.
Instantly one dazzling sight after another;
At the bottom of the universe is the treasure-chest of the spirit holding the mysterious sound of purity;
capable of bringing abundant smiles to children’s faces;
72 + 72 gears playing out the subtle sound of all things.
Turning the wheel of time magically making the flowers nod.
A marvelous canary
searching for that realm of endless meaning.
A newborn chick exuberantly flying past the beguiling fog,
Tracing the spirit of the mountain,
Arriving at the summit.

—Written in Interlaken on November 13, 2002;
Completed in the Hall of Fragrant Recitation
== back to top ==


Book 1 The Scroll of Life

An old streetlamp transmitting the story of 3,000 travelers;
Midnight, scenic spots repeatedly appear in the sea of dreams.
Frigid night the visitor embraces the quilt and falls asleep.
Instantly, in some distant place,
not knowing when I’ve returned;
Dreaming dreaming of a fisherman fishing under the full moon;
Wondering whether to discard the fish or to relinquish the moon.
Nagging worries linger on;
Sudden loss of mind’s equilibrium dust and find sand;
Unwittingly soaking in the cool moonlight.


Lost in play, forgetting the time, a child suddenly exclaims:
“It’s already dark!”
Homesick child, don’t worry;
Tomorrow the daylight will come as usual.
The next morning, a little girl happily skips along the narrow forest path.
Imitating the sounds of nature, the shepherd boy whistles in tune with the spring.
In the sea-sky there appears the broad face of a smiling baby,
Dancing with the colorful clouds and flower-adorned earth.
Just then the red sun rises up.


The rosy clouds of dusk, the bodhisattva mind;
Sentient beings continually flowing into
A comma, one after another, endlessly.
The wind blows off a corner of the cloud,
Weaving innumerable dreams of pure dew.
Purple lightning, blue frost, the thoughts of an arhat instantly
freezing time, returning to zero, putting down a period.
Relentless rain leaves that native place soggy wet;
An inner voice repeats hundreds of times, but he still doesn’t hear.
Blue dome, green earth the common folk have a plan.
The road to the summit is frozen over;
Yet, seeing the sky filled with silent mist and rime,
They intuitively know how to stride high in the clouds by day,
To dream of the undulating sea by night.
From days of old up to now who knows how to press the pause button?
A single lovely snow-plum blossom lights up the winter, opening the curtain on a silvery display.


Peaks gripping peaks,
Ponds shoulder to shoulder;
Breathing lakes, an inner resonance.
A warm breeze, entering from four directions, invigorate one another.
Trees arrayed like stars,
Branches interweaving.
Male and female, heaven and earth; movement in frozen space-time.
Fish and water perform, accompanied by ubiquitous raindrops;
A dream delimited within a conjured city.
The leaves don’t move just an ancient game.
A distant memory of a Chinese flowering crab apple tree in autumn;
A bright and clean lotus flower—
A white light illuminates the breast of the mountain;
The beauty of the winter sun!


In the forest park the swaying trees are the guardian angels of the land;
A kite harnessed by a person, floating in its allotted range.
The moon in the river following the flow. Who is the host, who is the guest? Who leads, who follows?
A drifter crosses the bridge and then dismantles it;
Passers-by gaze at the streetlamp;
ahead in the boundless, mysterious mist.
A light-yellow moon fixed on the top of a tall building;
passers-by place lock upon lock on the door of the heart.
Night; deep, deep, deep moon; bright, bright, bright.
The Traveler; countless secret sojourns in that empty cave;
alone, intoxicated with self-complacency;
Remembering his dear mother’s cotton-padded shoes.
The blue sky shelters the Traveler fortunate is he who leaves behind the tribulation of the world.
An exhortation from childhood appears amidst surging emotion,
repeatedly bursting forth fear not the dark.
An eternal bright flame, seed-like just
That original palace of the heart, illuminated by the moon.


Towering mountains and deep valleys, red embracing green;
Joy and sorrow, alternating white and blue.
Silvery beauty in the dazzling winter;
Lodging under the stars you, I, him, relying on one another;
One a dreamer one a social climber,
one always roaming in the outer heavens.
Suddenly the dreamer pulls down the sleep blinds;
A stranger accidentally drawn into a mysterious dream.
A passer-by hurries home to be a guest;
That eyebrow moon slightly open at 108.5°,
Countenance on high a tuft of white hair circling round five peaks.

Wind and fog gyrating round a mountain peak thunderstorm giving way to a bright sky.
The beauty of the eighth day of the moon surpasses that of the first and last quarters.
Wishing to know this self-directed play,
in a dream woven outside of the laws of time and space,
He sets off, seeking out 53 peaks;
as the path deepens the views become more profound.
The purl of running water fish roving and hiding in the mountain stream;
Diorite steps covered with moss;
Sun blocked by 3,000 dragon cypress trees tonight
Taiping Mountain, below zero, forming a glittering world of ice and frost;
lighting up a charcoal fire, heating rocks, roasting yams on glistening red flames.
Night in the forest nature singing out in a resounding voice;
A mountain, the box of the wing, turning out the music of the Harvest Festival.
Thoughts of home, can’t dispel completely unknown;
The sky reveals three eyes with long curved eyebrows;
gorgeous yet not beguiling.
Tacitly entering the cabinet of response;
How is it that the mind can’t find the mind?
That a sense sphere can’t see itself?
That dust accumulates daily?
That a field can only fortuitously see a field?
So then, where is that monarch of the spirit at present?


Following the moon, the clouds soar up the mountain;
Pursuing the sun, the fog disperses itself.
Mountain attached to sea in an open-air theater a show is underway;
a song and dance drama on the romantic Milky Way.
The fireflies and light breeze elicit the call of the owl.
A certain youth following the moonlight strides into the forest;
seeking shelter from a bright meteor shower.
The secret of the universe silently under his feet;
Past life and present all manner of worldly appearances dwell in a dream.
Wind blows the scarecrow nods without noticing.
A little bird, startled—
flies up helter-skelter.


Fish frolicking in the sea starry night;
the moon on night watch in the ancient temple.
Curling upwards, incense reassembles past impressions;
A realistic photograph caches the flame of love into primeval ice.
See that abstract painting tugging on the heartstrings of that dazzling dream of early youth.
Heated by the charcoal fire, waves billow forth inside the pot.
Painted faces a value-added drama put on once again;
Beyond the pale of civilization, in twos and threes idlers enjoying the fruits of others’ labors;
echoing on the threshold between fact and fantasy.
Stepping on the earth leaping out a peculiar dance to usher in the gods.
There a silvery tower of ice in a pure white skirt;
Keeping watch over that flock of white cranes from afar.

A pair of astute ears listens to sounds of joy and sorrow;
With just a few words thoughts of far off home endlessly well up,
Guiding that person in a dream, not knowing home where he presently is.
Silence delightful birdsong reverberating in the mountain fastness;
Purple red blue green flowers shower down from above.
A land of dreams where a winged steed has been galloping on for 3,000 years;
by chance coming to one’s senses.
Countless motes of dust come
pouring into the realm of deluded thought;
Madly dancing thoughts—
Aware of their appearance in meditation yet
in a lapse of caution, swept into the vortex of consciousness.
Empty and bright learning from the handwritten text of the masters of old,
That the sunflower planted long ago is now sprouting;
That the chick has already grown abundant feathers.


The Visitor asks the Traveler:
“Who are you? Where are you from?”
The Traveler replies:
“How is it that the present you hasn’t found the original me?”
Towering waves churn the deep sea fish reveal their tracks;
How is it that the affairs of the day reappear in the dreams of the night?
A butterfly, flower basket in hand, touring all about;
A golden awn glimmering on a beach of seashell sand.
The Shepherd Boy waves goodbye to the last glow of the sun;
On the raised pathway between the fields smiling rape flowers nod,
The plateau of life sentient beings’ gift;
Beach after beach,
Homesickness like a sunset sealed in ice,
Stridently striding, striding; yet remaining as still as a mountain.

Rainwater unveiling the mystery of spring;
Waking of Insects thunderclaps waking the subtle spirit of the earth;
Vernal Equinox the ox and the Shepherd boy following one another in the twilight.
An imaginary pink train speeds into the future;
In an icy wind a red flamingo,
boldly preens its lovely feathers;
While observing the sun settled on top of a lotus.

—December 25, 27, 29, 2001

== back to top ==

Book 2 2002 Dragon Boat Crossing Over

The door of the mind tightly shut, not opening daily;
still hoping that she will return.
A wave of consciousness comes leaping out of the sea of illusion;
just like the tide advancing and retreating on the coast.
Night after night, gazing out the window into the distance, praying;
yet anxious 26 years and still waiting.
Today meeting in a dream, by virtue of a wish;
A few words are enough to express heartfelt emotion moved to tears in a moment.
Tonight is different somehow forgetting about those 9,498 days.
Meeting again in a dream;
Worried, lest the memory disappear into the sea of consciousness;
instantly, 26 years in the past.
It’s pure, it’s empty it’s a water-spewing dragon, it’s a vision;
Is it deep sentiment, or a sluggish spring in the forest?


The last twilight of 2001;
The winter sun masquerading as the moon, concealing itself all about.
I choose to celebrate the new year in mid-flight;
Lingering glare pours in through the cloud window;
mist floating below.
Sea joins sky sky bursting into color;
Sky joins sea sea printed with all visible phenomena.
The Wanderer entreats the setting sun to slow down;
The pendulum of time and speed;
The red orb of the sun resting in chaos, rolling up its light;
Prepared at the Country Kitchen and the Dingtaifeng,
the vibrating meal does the countdown;
High in the sky, I enter 2002.


2002, left and right ears, seated between wondrous peaks;
2002, dragon boat crossing the mouth of the valley.
Eyes of men and gods attention drawn to all that is real;
Whistle of the Alishan train off in distance;
Six degrees Celsius below zero; the northern snow, a blessing from an old friend—
After tomorrow, you will crush your ailments underfoot all things going well;
using that pair of big feet to crush false views, defilements, and ignorance.
A spotlessly white cloud drifts through the clear sky near the mountain of the spirit;
A black windbreaker covers the winter pants of the land‧dew-like rain.
Lesser Cold when snow flakes don’t melt to form ice.
On Biefeng aloe blooms with tiny red pagoda flowers,
crowdedly dancing in its silvery world.
Several clouds turning like thoughts mist on the mountain, whirling like the mind.
The wind blows the cloud bearing moisture and ice then condensing in space.
Illusion and reality fixed on a seesaw;
alternating places throughout time without end.
Illusions forever swinging in the sea of consciousness,
Back and forth high and low.
At times ascending a peak at times stuck in the mire;
How did yesterday’s fresh world become so dusty and turbid?
A canary calls out towards that silent shore—
a beautiful life is one that returns to truth, eschewing depravity;
All day, he nets the mountain, nets the sea; not knowing how to net the future.


Orange vault of heaven, golden glow of the setting sun evening red;
A brilliant radiance of 10,000 beams pierces the sky sunrise.
Guess who is the musical director of this open-air opera house in a primeval forest.
it’s the wind, the rain it’s the wish-fulfilling tree in the sky,
Performing a hackneyed old tune, or something new.
It’s the God of Spring calling out, or the continuous affection of the falling rain.
Trees woven into a color spectrum the Wanderer again steps in;
The Vagrant repeatedly drops anchor in the night port.
Major chiliocosm winds round minor chiliocosm leaving the dense forest to enter upon the sunny thoroughfare.
She wants to build house, a safe nest Why
chop up the roots and vines of an ancient tree to make a door?
A low shout mist covers the mountain.
Suddenly water comes pouring down from all directions;
Instantly inundating the entire island!
The gods look down from above all that remains
Is a huge soggy tissue floating about.
An owl ensconced on a large mountain;
It’s nest in a dark cave with two dark crystals, listening.

84,000 disheveled hair roots linked with 84,000 defilements;
84,000 stout pores hiding 84,000 subtle thoughts.
In the distance a boat from afar searches for a lighthouse, approaches shore;
the Traveler, returning late, chasing the moon, dropping anchor.
In the Candlelight the Wanderer opens his virtual overcoat;
A reverie of home again bursts forth;
Opening the door of light setting free the confined space.
That old pair of shoes now glistens on the lovely dustless path.
The fragrant rice dumplings have been cool for several years;
the same issues reoccur hundreds of times a year.
Endless reminiscing recited over 84,000 years;
It’s as if I’ve shared this meal with you before.
The first second of 2002 Sydney Bridge;
Massive fireworks greeted by 3,000 lenses.
On the boundary of the East China Sea and the Pacific Ocean I photograph the bright and clear moon,
Flanked by several white clouds,
Silently marking the passage of time in the night sky.
Early morning mountain path; child lets out several hearty laughs looking back;
An adult on a downtown street, anxious and stressed.
See that six-sided wall with door, window, and person;
the space of the ten directions with mountain, sea, heaven, and earth;
the seeds of the store-consciousness with me, you, and him.
51 types of emotion floating in the sea of consciousness, blown by the wind with
greed, hatred, delusion . . . as well as generosity, love, and wisdom.


Amidst boundless space the deep Fragrant Sea in the east;
Within the Sea an island like a sweet potato.
On the wave-swept shore there is a monastery on a hill;
Under the moonlight exquisite as a mote of dust;
Composed of atomic particles as many as the grains of sand in the Ganges.
On each Spring and Autumn Equinox as the sound of a golden drum accompanies the setting sun
Infinitesimal atomic particles
lightly roll up the wondrous peak
placing emptiness in the foam.
Early morning on the second day of 2002 a chilling north wind.
I see a small bird eating the fruit on the Indian Olive tree.
Luckily, yesterday morning the tiny caterpillars moved next to the verdant bamboos.
Heaven and earth looping, neither born nor destroyed.
The way of the awakened one is to augment the augmented,
Thereby bringing both sides to completion like the small bird and the caterpillars.

Having traversed a hundred thousand paths;
Path losing the way in an instant.
Wandering through remote villages, asking for directions an old man on the side of the road laughs and says:
“Starting from here, you’ll still need 3,000 springs!”
A hundred thoughts, none reaching the way home.
Just then meeting the dominant condition inviting me
To get into his big white-ox cart;
crossing 10,000 rivers and mountains in a moment, arriving at
Right consideration—
A good many good friends appear;
Discovering that everyone knows what it’s like to suddenly get lost.
A good friend exhorts then everyone descends the mountain,
Taking only a blanket in a cloth bag;
instantly dazzling flames rise from a silver bottle,
Candlelight illuminating the nine heavens.
Those who don’t want to leave the mountain
yearningly watch the hometown train passing by.

A small bird perches on the end of a branch and listens to the silence of the ten directions in the silver season;
The treetop is concerned that the bird is perched on a flimsy leave.
Imagination and reality intersecting a horizontal and a vertical form two crossroads;
turning east, south, west, and north, looping 360°.
A vast universe, conditions, causes; revealing the secret of the starry night;
romantic heaven and earth; humanity still revolving in samsara.
Following the beaten path yet
knowing not where the path leads.
Conscience calls out be thoughtful in three ways where old folks cross the street.
Clear mind reminds three ways to revere ones teachers.
Waves advancing and retreating on the surf a red sun,
level with the water, filling the coast.
In each identical field of the heart, some plant gourds, others beans, depending on it;
Daytime photo farcical chapters;
An eagle circles in the mind;
shang and jiao musical modes contending.
A secret worry appears before the eyes;
A celestial warehouse of the mind, wavering and dreaming.
Eyes gazing on illusion;
White flowing waves find not the pure light.
An ancient black ganoderma blossom,
calling innumerable people to climb the summit of recovery.

—December 31, 2001; January 1, 2, 2002
== back to top ==

Book 3 Book in the Sky
—Palace of the ancient kings with stars and flowers

Four wheels of the off-road vehicle, rumbling down the East Coast Highway,
Stretching from Taidong to Hualian;
Happy spirit nudges the waves and shouts;
Light breeze silently strokes the eyebrows;
Stars fervently floating in the Milky Way;
Moon invites cloud to dance in the sky.
That thought drifting on the river of consciousness tremendous pressure instantly released;
Bodhisattva wisdom widely broadcast outside of time and space as we know it;
from sunset to sunrise.
Early in the morning with two hands I receive the first rays of sunlight on the coast.
Noticing the footprints of the sleepless Traveler left behind in the sand.
Mind of the past instantly taken up by a flying bird and given to the past;
Mind of the future, like rosy dawn calling out to the sunshine, immanent;
Mind of the present, like that childhood dream of becoming a sorcerer;
as soon as it arises, the thought disappears.



Perfect wisdom rises on the slipstream;
A thousand clouds stacked up, churning below.
Zoom lens of the sea shooting all the passing visitors;
stored away deep, deep, deep; then returning them to heaven.
Within the eyes the destination is right ahead;
I again draw a line on the boundless vault of heaven;
How could the remaining empty space become defiled?
Instantly, the red plum bursts forth a silvery trichiliocosm.
An egret hides inside the bright moon, playing a game.
10,000 nimble clouds roll up into a hole in the sky;
Above the mountain an eagle flies over as a guest granted free passage by the mist;
light and shadow furtively shift.
A quick glance at the bluish water and the opportunity is lost;
Again and again.
Time and space freely transforming;
Dwelling in the moment each moment becomes eternity.


The sunlight, making an inspection tour of everyone’s face,
Instantly notices the worried look on her face;
Responding with three parts commiseration,
Illusory thoughts filling the sky seven parts obscured by ignorance.
Stuck in the mire anxieties like a shadow that never leaves.
Going with and against the current in the sea of consciousness, turning around,
a full sail propels back and forth.
The flame of love has been burning for 3,000 years;
Warm affection rising like steam, manifesting here and there;
The wind of the sense objects misses no opportunities to blow in.
Waves unceasing one after another disturbing one’s sweet dream;
The path spread with darkness,
soaked in erroneous thoughts.
Innumerable villages the Wanggong Coast;
Oyster-farming poles inserted in the sand;
Two seasons a year.
Childhood excursions, frolicking on the surf;
Innocent mind ever expecting the dawn;
Fishing village buddies joining palms.
Memory like the pale yellow light in the study;
brightly flowing into the heart planting the flower of wisdom.
Like stars blooming forth in a dream;
now large, now small lighting up space, then disappearing.
Suddenly, I again hear the tidal sound of the conch;
Seeking it out I discover that the ten directions are the virtual starting point;
Heaps of illusions, completely familiar appearing and disappearing.



Mountains not meeting emitting white messenger clouds;
Birth belongs to the east awakening belongs to the west;
The flame of wisdom is in the south the rare sound of silence is in the north.
Middle, responsive to conditions dependent;
adventitious defilements moving, transforming.
Walking in winter, greeting the sun with a smile;
See that withered leaf blowing in the wind.
Two red clouds roving in the distance in the sky an eagle book with letters,
Showing how an ancient sorcery has been transformed into a contemporary secret code.
The declining sun elongates the long shadow of the stairway 51 steps clearly dropping.
A memory inlaid in the mind from time immemorial;
Tossing sleepless in the sea of dreams, all because of the faint sound of that golden drum on the opposite shore;
ceaselessly pulling in the mind.
Buddha relief on an ancient stupa, bathed in the moonlight of 3,000 years.
The monastery bell rings out night after night, like the waves pounding the rocky coastline.
Eaves on the temple piled with red tiles rising up like a mountain peak.
Heaven and earth following the four seasons, inscribing memories on the gold-green bamboo.
I’m fond of silent conversation on the empty mountain;
Let the golden sunlight block the power of vision;
slightly concealing seven parts of the visual faculty.
It’s said that the original written language is found in a distant world;
the source of the speech fashions which come into vogue each year.
Waving sleeves send forth the scent of blooming violets;
Instantly bodhisattva minds by the millions spring forth from the subterranean palace,
together making a vow for the benefit of all sentient beings.
Affected, nose aches, memory recedes;
Forgotten eyes moist all the same.

A long bamboo hedge with glimmering red flame can’t pacify
this mood, ebullient as surging red water.
In the sea of consciousness, past scenes in a tug of war with future dreams.
A smoking package blazes up she makes a scene;
Fog concealing water why doesn’t she remain in the palace today?
Faces of two children sneaking a peek at the night sky;
Stars in the Milky Way make eyes at her.
Elements of a dream recollect the past;
stealing into a phantom city, roaming and clambering at will.
Nameless notion follows a serpentine path;
drifting in the realm of fantasy.
How can sorcery be realistically depicted? How is it that the sense faculties go about embellishing everything?

The game of a newborn baby illusion
riding a Ferghana horse through the flowers in a sea of butterflies.
A pair of socks forever hugging ten toes;
That pair of shoes on the feet, kissing the mud yet
Obtaining a mass of frost and snow.
The glistening light of the waves throws the inverted image of a tree into disarray that tree standing tall in the sky.
below its gnarly branches fish play on a swing.
The Shepherd Boy whistles out to his friends;
Spellbound beyond measure;
flying towards the Realm of the Awe-inspiring Sound in search of that lovely sound.
Searching for a dream in the night a truant pair of eyes and ears;
Waking up eyebrows turn into a bow which shoots off two beams of celestial light;
discovering that all phenomena are wrapped in deluding colors.
A riddle; just guess enter the game in the forest;
How is it that traveling in the city of spring no flying flowers are seen?
It’s because you can’t put down that bucket of paint your carry on a shoulder pole yet
On occasion one hears the sound of the rain falling in one’s distant native place.
yet unable to fathom how she remains on the way home, enduring the biting cold.
How can the senses, so fond of contact, become unbound?
How can the eyes of pure vision light the stainless lamp?
Purify all the muddled perceptions.

—January 5–9, 2002
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Book 4 Sigh of the Minnow under 3,000 Lotus Flowers

The flight attendant bids the passengers goodnight,
plane flies through the darkness instantly
A red line extends on the surface of the sea;
The drawn bow of the new moon peeks in through all the windows.
Realizing that this route has bewildered countless heroes;
who is it that wrote the book of defilements on the bodhi leaf?
thinking on the slippery slope of emotion and reason; advance and retreat both perilous.
The plane quietly flies on through the deep blackness,
blackness sealing off the boundless mountain vista.
Vast expanse below dazzling rivers concealed in darkness.
The solo Traveler sitting in a window seat, thoughts moving faster than the speed of light.
A rumbling sound pieces the clouds—
Passengers from different places,
Anxiously drifting east and west;
You, I, him; why don’t we speak our true minds?
Who is it that locked away this spiritual intelligence?
Sky high at 5.30 p.m. I release the shutter capturing the sunset in a moment.


Noon, 12.15, double-paned window above, half blue
below, half white white-hemmed clouds;
following the rhythm of the light, dancing in the firmament.
Two feathered eyebrows circle a mountain peak;
Understanding all three, entering the sea of dreams in search of fish.
Happening across a thousand wavering lotus flowers;
Wandering clouds instantly press up against the window;
Plane-shuttle playing hide-and-seek in the misty clouds;
Wavering compass needle;
Figures on a satellite positioner; auto-navigation;
landing gear drops touching down at 3.15 p.m.
Every type of optical fiber formed into a thousand sights meet the eye;
Already noticing the warmer temperature here in the south.
Eyes making a visual sketch impressions repeatedly stored in visual consciousness.
Waiting midnight dream reappears.
Ears surpass tongue and closely listen to the unobstructed sounds of nature;
Now entering, now leaving flowing into a stream of silvery sound;
Who is able to pilot that immaculate sailboat through the sea of the five turbidities;
amidst the six-fold dust, returning to that wondrously unmoving water-sky?
Under a clear sky vagrant clouds roam in and roam out;
Form and appearance instantly transformed soaring up like hawks and falcons;
At times appearing like a butterfly fluttering through a celestial city;
at times like a snow crane soaring through the heavens at times like a red rain trailing the wind.
Plane quietly moving within the speed of sound;
On the right, a hook-like cloud on the left, a cloud-like hook;
in the center, an old fisherman.
Flying past, Biefeng up ahead looking back, also Biefeng;
Arriving at the mountain in the here and now, a wonderful high summit.
Thoughts of the true mind open the door and welcome the sunrise;
Thoughts of delusion close the door and hope for dusk.
Those two arches below the forehead can’t occlude the divine eye.


Speeding down the highway lined with white poplars;
Under a grand sun, last year’s green lapel traded for snowy-white.
A silvery world, white on white;
Ice and ice happily meet cold in love with cold;
Billowing cold unrelenting infiltrating the Milky Way’s wavering scarf.
Snowscape; vehicle’s shadow strings together shadows of trees, not a soul in sight.
Countless vehicles zip about;
figures one after another freeze up India’s main station.
I notice the power of regeneration bursting forth in this distant place.
Bright, bright, bright approaching daylight;
Green, green, green a sea of paddy fields stretching out behind.

In the mountains at night the Wanderer enters a fragrant forest to sleep;
An old man appears in a dream—
Planting four twin sal trees in the four directions, simultaneously flowering and withering in the four seasons;
Lying under a bodhi tree with a big green rock as a pillow;
Delusion and enlightenment like two blossoms on one stem.
Penetrating all things under the sun requires one part inner inspiration;
Perceiving the triple world requires seven parts spiritual wisdom.
The old man picks a leaf and draws an image of Bodhidharma;
gracefully placing it in the river, learning what is meant by “crossing the river on a single reed.”
In the river an ice-bound ferry allowing
a group of children to play with that unmoving boat.
Someone steps onto the ice of an unnamed lake to practice originality with a student.
A small arc swaying inside a big arc;
Three corners on the left, three corners on the right;
and three corners in the middle of the lake.
Abruptly the sound of a sled on ice;
startling the dreaming Wanderer!
Where sky and sea meet a thousand-year-old nautilus calls out;
As an ancient silver sailing ship sails towards the heavens.
See that crystal glazed pagoda gyrating in the colorful sunlight;
As a harp circulating in an ancient state sounds.
Alternating layers of gauze and bamboo, concealing
A map of the constellations embossed on a huge sleeping boulder.



Ten inkstones ten brushes;
Original works of a great master hand in my study.
Green netting, red pulsation the master’s footprints framed on the wall.
Blue roof, white silence the master’s footprints treading on the roof.
The fire bowl is already hot as an oven;
high above, the moonlight points out the way home.
tonight dazzling star formation of the century.
The path home appears in the 3,000 swirls adorning the fingertips.
On the index finger, a dipper capable of removing 3,000 defilements;
Searching therein for that non-reversible sail heading towards
phantom cities as numerous as the grains of sands in the Ganges.
Dropping anchor in one harbor after another approaching shore
setting sail again and again . . .
This dream, from long ago up to now, unable to sweep away that anxiety of a thousand threads;
The seer dedicates his life to benefitting all sentient beings;
Just like a minnow confidently swimming here and there in the vast sea.

There exists in paradise a wish-fulfilling tree;
Every time a cloud comes flowers bloom and it rains;
The trees of paradise rejoice.
When a cloud comes again flowers bloom and it rains;
The trees of paradise clearly understand.
When a cloud comes again it rains and flowers bloom;
In the paradise of the mind, fruit ripens, a lotus grows.
Following a round of distant thunder,
heaven and earth return to silence.
In the quiet of night, open those boundless arms and embrace the earth;
Mountain shifting into valley serenely pervading secret meaning.
Brume permeating without remaining in the interstice;
River pressing close to sea trembling, sobbing.
The land once again obtains the mysterious seed of regeneration;
Keen on fantasizing by day fond of dreaming by night.
What the Traveler fears most is hearing that inner shout;
Often dreaming of the moon and Milky Way on a thousand-petaled lotus.
Fantasizing about flying beyond that bamboo hedge seeing that towering curtain of the ten directions.
Who is able to tread on heaven and earth concealing time;
with a rainbow as his family, love as his medicine;
Weaving light and shadow into multiple hues;
Drawing a two-wheeled full stop replete with the merit and wisdom of heaven and earth?


There is a thought which rides on the buoyancy of intention, floating about in accordance with conditions.
In ancient times there was a mighty stone bell engraved with a question mark; now it’s lost.
There is a piece of charcoal, not yet become crystal, obliged to remain inside a comma, encamped.
Leo meteor shower like countless caesuras;
night after night pouring down from the Milky Way.
Suddenly a bolt of lightning lays down an exclamation point!
Sun rises, then sets in the west;
a colorful cloud with gilt edging and red embroidery ruffles its sleeves.
On the margins of the Milky Way is a wind gap,
gently blowing on the great mountains throughout the cosmos.
One day in a moment of carelessness, the eyebrows were found by the moonlight;
Then the raised nostrils were no longer able to contain the wind; east, west, south, north.
A silver vase emitting the buzz of a swarm of mosquitos;
Whose eyes are died red by the vicissitudes of the past?
Forts of old, doors that no longer lock;
turbulent people, group by group, collected therein.
The mischievous laughter of childhood playmates vanishes in the corridors of time.

—January 10, 16, 17, 2002
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Book 5 Ancient Stone Stairway

Clouds cover the water fishing boat busy at sea;
Clouds arrayed like chess pieces air bus flies on.
Outside the window a three-level seven-color rainbow lays out a triangular mobile illusion.
a galaxy formed like a fingerprint comes wafting over from the sea of stars.
Giant clouds pass through the arch of the rainbow, making their way to an ancient land of nine felicities.
Turbulence up ahead a vast grassland;
Landscape in chaos finger-tip dipper piles up the fog, occludes spiritual intelligence.
The northern regions continually give off a silvery silent light;
Thousand year dark room, first illuminated by five lamps;
Between heaven and earth, a pair of indistinct eyes in the bright sun;
in the dark night;
A heaven-blessed child exploring all over in the daylight.
Grown up, however, he takes after the Scion Drifter, lonesome night after night;
dreaming in the moonlight.


Wind is the theme of Spring Mountain rain; why does it come and weave fine silk?
Rain plays the leading role in the autumn outskirts wind; why does it entangle the red leaves?
Summer wilds, the Wanderer often dreams of searching for happiness yet
teased by the owl in the picture.
The white snow is the master of winter down
below the silvery cover, a school of fish in a great sea is overjoyed.
In a deep and remote valley an ancient qin;
seven strings suddenly vibrate.
A gentle breeze blows over a wondrous sound, accidentally entering the mundane world;
Night comes diamonds like ice-flowers sprinkled into the Wanderer’s dream;
stringing up a Saha rhyme, lovely as a symphony.
Bamboo leaf roller rolls up a leave and ensconces itself therein.
The master of the pavilion daily plays the part of the ferryman receiving visitors;
the mind of compassion throws a buoy into the treacherous current.
In another steam fish see the ancient path with silk cotton trees, flowers blooming and dropping.
Four seasons revolve, coming and going;
Spring, summer, fall, winter; a vehicle ascending and descending, changing gears;
Still it’s necessary to hit the brakes three times to stay in control.
There is a secret book by an ancient sage for interpreting dreams;
To sweep away beguiling illusions a blue beam of light;
a flash of understanding drawn out by tears.

Traveling in the sunny sky the memory chip of the old tree is now being rebroadcast;
3,000 people have already come to enjoy the cool;
3,000 responses enter into a clean bottle.
At the foot of the dazzling mountain, a rhythmic dancing green;
Resplendent white flowers compete to deck out the land in fresh garments.
Who is able to use excellent dominant conditions to master the forms wrought by karmic forces?
To use wisdom to master one’s emotions?
A youth keen on traveling afar, sleepless with excitement;
Instantly her sleeves appear on a street corner;
Nine long lines delineating eight lanes occupied by heroic runners;
One well for nine fields; a group of farmers working hard.
A large room inside a small room a palace hidden in the wilderness;
sometimes 3,000 years is the same as three days.
A facial expression like the Vernal Equinox, settling into the winter whiteness;
Happily weaving clarity trouble and worry, entangling tribulation.
The master always follows his companion;
Instantly waking from the dream all phenomena return to zero;
In the pagoda on the mountain of the spirit an old friend offers up tea.


The two ancient trees of vicissitude open up the corridor of space and time;
Sentient beings suffused with mountain mist thoughts and notions, wave upon wave.
Flower blooms within the fog moon silently wavering in the middle of the pool.
Imaginary journey through the void dancer leaping in a dream;
Stunning see the abundant light of the sun and moon ever illuminating the top of the hill.
The Traveler; one button with four holes; sewing tight seams all day long;
One pair of shoes with two lines, making eight turns; feet turning together.
Long summit covered with snow thousands of snow mounds amassed on the hills.
Who has not the notion “sentient being”? The supercilious one, or the one who dwells in the realm of nonduality?
Who has not the notion “person”? The one with neither companion nor confidant, or the peerless one who fares as lonely as a rhinoceros?
Who has not the notion “self”? In the darkness of night there is a crane, upright and independent in the silvery moonlight.
Twilight glow dwelling high on the hill flying clouds collide, feathers fall into a corner of the sea;
from bottom to top, climb those 52 ancient stone steps.
Along the way a roaring flame it’s illumination, it’s a flaming wave;
these 52 steps can be traversed only when moving at top speed.
Approaching the slippery silver ramp up ahead
a perfectly splendid peach grove.
Upraised nose smells the magic wheels on ten fingers;
venting emotion, looking for trouble.
Pathway on the river leading red leaves towards the sea;
Glistening waves cavorting with stream, constantly circumgyrating.
Cinnabar orb of the sun triumphantly breaches the thousand-fold fog;
all sorts of familiar images stop me dead in my tracks;
Remembering instantly clearing away old memories.

2001 turns into 2002 huge sun, glittering sunlight in Great Cold;
The ancient temple washed to the valley floor by the silent torrent of time.
Lighting a bright lamp in the sea of the mind so as to see forms;
Autumn moonlight fond of following flowing water through the portal;
neither defiled nor pure.
See that curving corner of the lips rising up eyebrows laughing;
two eyes taking in erstwhile Buddha holding up a flower and smiling.
South Mountain, fogbound throughout the year the notion “life span” trails not the old pine.
A fossil engraved with a representation of an ancient boat spiraling through the Milky Way;
Cypress and fir fear not the cold north wind conveys the sound of nature which she reverently listens to.
Foolish indeed, never weary of play only because of that ingenuous original nature;
Silly and daft, always lost in thought happy to be confused;
Dull yet honest and straightforward deeply imbued with a brightness of spirit unknown to all;
Muddleheaded singing a tea-picking song all the way to the mountain beyond the clouds;
calling out to a dazzling rainbow blessed with the nine felicities.


Aquamarine scroll, azure tree branches distinctly reflected in a high-mountain lake;
Golden splendor folded up in green light glimmering twilight collecting the feathers of a lone duck.
At the shady trailhead there is a mysterious hut;
Eaves draped in snow year round interior always filled with moss;
in one corner is a sandalwood box.
Pry it open to discover the diary of some previous traveler
Describing events three centuries past and
the story of a dancing white fox and
A scroll depicting the constellations of his native place.
Taking a close look today’s Big Dipper is as brilliant as it was back then;
Sagittarius is still glittering in the Milky Way just before.
Also inside the box is an ancient lotus seed with
A message: “I had no opportunity to plant this seed;
Perhaps someone in the future will be good enough to do it for me.”
Through a stroke of serendipity, that traveler of old has met up with the Visitor of today;
both seekers in search of a seed.
The buddha-seed opens, the flower of awakening blooms;
The clear and bright original nature and the pure mind flow in from the Realm of Awe-inspiring Sound.


Three humble visits to the thatched cottage of an urchin presently
pair of little ears lost in the jingle.
A sea of banners, all waving for a single role character;
A raging fire incinerates all phenomena.
Childhood memories have already been buried under a phantom city;
How can the youth of today clearly understand the world of tomorrow?
Practicing deep breathing a mysterious power appears.
Train arrives late; little girls can’t make it to the concert as though
time is playing a practical joke on her.
Patting the tree’s shoulders stroking its bark;
The clock wants to speak, but stops, merely flashing across the road of time.
Sensory ability and the stalk of empty nature;
extending the old tree’s sleep to 3,000 years.
Weathered post covered in snow; presently ready to thaw;
Clues of spring already visible;
Pity the one who has crossed the river by that ancient plank road.
See that old suspension bridge beyond the mountains;
presently swaying with an icefall 3,000 years past.

—January 18, 20, 21, 2002
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Book 6 Record of the Phantom City

Ancient village farmers dancing with hoes and plows;
every day a silent performance by the setting sun.
A pair of fish freely saunter in the river of dreams;
why the submerged reef?
Walking along a broad path with footlights;
Senses stirred by each sense object on the perilous bridge of perception.
Emotional reaction scurries out hunting tranquility and wisdom.
Up ahead a mountain with celestial towering crags;
A shepherd boy sends over a laugh from a thousand steps away;
Realm of dream suddenly
overthrown by the register of ignorance, sky and earth spinning round.
Deep in the mountains, a secret flower garden;
Village beyond the village a craft village;
An old carpenter fond of making wind wheels and spinning wheels.
All the people of this world are fond of smiling.
A pair of red clouds always slowly floating upwards;
Night after night a child takes up a dry branch and directs the dancing stars.
A frog fond of loitering on a lotus leaf singing with gusto;
song of the Scion Drifter embracing the spring sun; two feet begin to dance.


Pair of hands knocking; two feet step, kick, tread;
Head waves, body sways mind scurries all about.
On this side, pulling strings and hanging hooks;
On that side, a cacophonous image in a mirror.
Two bare feet, ah, so nice; then growing up, no longer satisfied with their natural condition;
Daily searching for fancy shoes, again and again.
Distracted by the material world, whence liberation?
obstructed at every turn; who is the fabricator?
Memory ever in motion, like a tumbling wave.
Anger-scorched prairie thundershower falls;
rekindling the joy of life.
Wondering which field is good for planting good seeds which bear good fruit;
It’s said that there was another meteor shower in the middle of the night.
Arranging with an old friend to spend the night watching over an olive tree of old.
Tonight no returning home a bolt of lightning beyond the sky;
streaking past a startled flock of geese in a V-formation.
Night firelight sweeps past the red-faced one camping in the mountains;
A teary-eyed lover closely follows;
Dreamlike illusions one after another just like
bubbles on the sea, assembled and scattered by the wind.


Thoroughly unclear as to the source of her sorrow;
In your bright mirror;
strife kicks up motes of dust as numerous as the grains of sands in the Ganges.
Memories of the past again appeared in last night’s dream.
Who is it who is weaving this story? How is it that the origami rooster crows?
that the Ferghana horse in the mural gallops?
Light of daybreak throws down a romantic ambience;
Mood moving, manipulated by appearances.
The theatrical stage between heaven and earth presently lights up;
With one type of defilement, the mind is immediately beguiled by whatever it contacts;
cleaning the ears, but the dirt remains.
Another type of defilement is as numerous as the grains of sand in the Ganges;
approaching from all directions, they get in by every opening;
constantly making inroads, day and night—
Yet another type of defilement preys on the fear born of innate ignorance;
Using loneliness and inanity to devour the wisdom and courage of youth.


A single stool with four legs a single musical staff with five lines.
She sits on a chair and vigorously stamps her feet;
Drifting gaze, drawing fingers back, joyful sound flutters up;
Under the starlight a thousand pairs of eyes follow the whirlwind of dazzling lamplight.
violin accompanies vocals;
Itinerant poet relates a story from some distant time and place.
A mysterious optical spectrum permeates an inspired mind;
A laugh revealing a thousand types of sorrow forgetting that bottomless blue forest of defilements.
Yet seeing beyond the sky a net with silver hooks and a shimmering canopy of stars;
a golden drum sounding the spirit of the tiny things of the earth.
Pitiful expressions in pairs call out to the deities amongst the people.
It’s said that at the bottom of a shadowy valley there is a magnolia boat;
Fitted with a huge hourglass following and disregarding order;
so that time moves backwards.
The train back home, each car going backwards;
A reticent companion paces up and down, writing page after page on the Traveler’s face;
Yearning time flowing backwards;
tonight not knowing how to fall asleep.


Freezing spring water flows into the mountain valley;
On the small roads in the village the mail is still delivered by a postman in green.
In the distance the Ruisui Highway has already transformed into a realm of gold.
Fields overflowing with rape flowers;
The silvery winter now stored away in a golden repository.
Early morning in the Birth of Spring; an early-rising little insect on
a drop of dew observing it’s true face.
Rainy season softening the ground;
Listening to the song of the sand mixed in the soil;
Each sound enters the ears playing on the heart strings;
sky clears, rain ceases buoyant white clouds float through the endless firmament.
A generation of youths, 23 years;
Every morning at 6.15 a seven-colored light appears in the eastern sky;
The chance effect of a thick layer of clouds in front of the rising sun.
A generation of young adults, mood of 23 years;
North wind gently waving the clothes winter sun dog illuminates her face;
Pure white expression calling forth two clear-blue drops.
A generation of middle agers, 23 years;
Stretching out ten fingertips to touch the old moss-covered pier;
Mood flows into a palace of yesteryear sumptuous banquets in succession.
A generation of old folks, supposing hearing is well, 23 years;
Withered leaves drop into a painting entire mountain colored by white heads.
11.15 in the evening, seeking a topic of discussion, passing by five peaks;
a type of mood which lights up bloodshot eyes.
The sand in the hourglass playfully yanks us up and down;
Outside the hourglass, I beat a hasty retreat;
Time inverts the world of adults;
and adults invert the world of children.
In the valley of the echo of time a storyteller sings;
In the park an old gardener drapes the trees with jade bells;
all for the sake of recapturing childhood memories.
A child asks an adult:
“How come the ocean tides race back and forth day after day, but the mountain can’t even walk?
“Why doesn’t the earth make any noise?
“How come every night the stars come and gambol on the roof?”


Rotting trees often grow glossy ganoderma.
After a forest fire;
Next spring fresh greenery springs up all over;
the ancient gods depict the exploits of legendary heroes of old.
A meteor shower arrives from some mysterious primeval corner of the universe.
On a mountain beyond the mountains a cold spring flows with the primordial water of truth.
After sectioning off successive nodes of blue-jade bamboo,
it’s possible to attach the megaphone of the Realm of the Awe-inspiring Sound.
Emotion reproduces images in multiple layers, rather like a concave and convex lens.
Now viewing at a distance, now up close the objects of awareness arrayed on their eight levels.
Wisdom and emotion roll on in the present now confused, now aware; now sad, now happy;
chaotic thoughts and deluded notions turn the pristine sea topsy-turvy.
The wind of sense objects blows up waves in the mind surging billows;
rolling headlong into tonight’s dream.
Innumerable galaxies, like bubbles floating on the sea;
drifting hither and thither arising and ceasing.
Just so, the plenum void is born in the great awakening just like a grain of corn in the vast sea.


Tears in a thousand rows who accompanies this sad tune?
Three humble visits to the thatched cottage, moving 10,000 flowers to the market.
Stirring the mud gurgling into red;
time sets in motion the great wheel of heaven and earth.
She entreats the gods to enter her dreams yet;
she doesn’t know how to send them off.
A shooting star passes by an old tree has a strange dream—
It witnessed the intersecting of light and shadow;
Next day hiding the moonlight in the starry sky waiting;
silent midnight meeting with the denizens of the land;
Last night quietly drawn into the Milky Way by the dim light of the moon and stars;
Wondering when that exquisite splendor will return;
Sense of touch is the locality response is the completion.
See that big house embracing the plenum void in
the spirit of small things, where vast emptiness exists in a single pore.

—January 22–25, 2001
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Book 7 Mountain Weave
—Stitching up the edges

Dusk at Danshui red desire ∞
Setting sun spreads the azure sea into a sheet of gold.
Beyond the sky a small silvery-white boat drifts past,
silently conveying the newborn moonlight ashore.
Sheets of moonlight shroud the land;
Round net formed of starlight arcs through the firmament.
Traveler yet wandering in desolate dithers;
A marquee shuttles visitors back and forth.
A sapphire hangs from the North Star,
Sent from the margins of the Milky Way—
in the realm of vain imagining, crashing waves of anger and billows of fear enter the ears.
Upsetting their plans,
Fierce fire burns within.
In the world of sentient beings, an enthusiastic response for wise guidance;
A channel of light controlling the mind’s flow.
In a deep and secluded valley there is a primeval forest;
Once looked after by the sunlight;
the moonlight also came to point out the way.
The Wanderer often appears in a dream, pacing back and forth.



Train carriages meeting in the countryside that’s where the Traveler gazes upon the visitors;
Two pairs of eyes converge and diverge.
An ancient spindle joins together steep mountains with
waves of flowing water golden needle drawing the thread in and away.
Senses of sight and hearing, drifting numbers and symbols in a game;
Senses of smell and taste, enigmas in a great sea of shifting smells and tastes;
Sense of touch intermingles with feeling fermenting lovely dreams proceeding to supposition.
Form raise up a bamboo pole and hang a banner;
add a horizontal pole for drying the laundry.
Feeling hollow out an ancient tree to make a sea-faring canoe.
Perception an ice-bound memory in the spring sun dimly appearing in a dream;
sunset confused, daylight swept clean.
Conditioning cinnabar sunset, glossy green trees along the road, cascading waterfall, blue sky;
that ancient long sleeve continuing in the present like a fine dance.
Consciousness thick underbrush in the wilds, boisterously clapping, jumping, kicking, leaping.
At times, a sentimental lento;
At times, a vigorous allegro;
Some vying to take the lead;
Some waiting in ambush.
On the stage the conductor indicates a slow tempo;
Brandishing a writing brush.


Sea wind blows up a wave of anger stacked a thousand fold.
Why is the earth so reticent?
High-mountain lake spotlessly white snow lotuses reared in mud and water;
A slim and graceful 3,000.
During childhood, at the Zifang Garden in Dingkuo Village;
Cotton buds falling beside me passing through the mysterious dark forest;
Arriving at the elementary school along the way sounds of childhood encircle my ears.
Recalling one night having a stomach ache;
Mother continuously rubbing my back.
Presently wanting to say something not knowing
how to select a suitable musical accompaniment.
Confusedly sailing through the universe to the bank of an ancient river;
heavy shower anticipated by the beating of the celestial drum.
Off in the distance school children ride bikes, taking the evening shadows back home.
An old three-section house, neighbors on either side; who misses it?
How is it that the Scion Drifter hasn’t returned for 30 years?
A small village nestled between the mountains and the coast a maze of streets.
I’ve come from my native place to see you;
why does she still hesitate?
Today a lovely morning see those beams of light sprinkled down by the winter sun;
hear the north wind blowing on the trees and waves.
Tomorrow’s stars eternally stored in an ordinary corner;
1234567 a child’s joke;
7654321 the Wanderer leisurely searching for something wonderful.


Early morning sea blows up a conch;
Wind sets dancing the romantic clouds.
Please try to connect with your childlike innocence recoup the sincerity and purity of childhood;
then the spring of joy will flow freely in the pure mind.
Pair of feet once again treading on a slow path;
Sky exhibiting hues of green, yellow, blue, white;
along the way all the tree branches point south.
An elder, his wrinkled face a roadmap of wisdom.
An adolescent girl fond of rolling her eyelashes, trying to look pretty.
Like a dream, a fantasy past and present repeatedly putting on a pose;
Who can understand the speech of an infant?
In the night sky the North Star snoops around, bestowing blessings.
Respect heaven seafarers fond of being guests, not distinguishing between cultured and uncultured;
Respect the earth woodsman on a mountain stream singing to the fish;
Respect the gods elegance of fresh vegetation, bathing in the spring sun.
reddish-orange love entertaining in autumn.
Sentient and insentient mixed together compounded;
mysteriously, a mirror within a mirror inside a net within a net.
Into a single nostril enters the smell of 10,000 stoves;
A single tongue tastes a hundred different flavors.
Three people plan to go out together to enjoy an early-morning run on the beach;
but their memory was muddled by a thundershower.
The river of dreams flows out of antiquity from the region of false imaginings;
up to now never returning;
the Scion Drifter arrives at a northern city;
years passing in a blur peach blossom perched on white frost;
wondering whether age has been brought on by a certain dream.
Tears of the Fire God congeal into a burning candle;
River gurgling on to the rhythm of the Rain God.
Wind of sense objects stirs consciousness into a raging billow.
Child weeping in a dream.
On the shore a dilapidated sail;
a virtual colored scroll the ancestor’s have left for you.
Sailing towards the boundless space between heaven and earth;
Stars hidden away on a stormy night;
How is it that the moon always enters into a dream to point out the way?
The dreamer, patching up a lie;
loses truthful speech.


Time transforms into a seven-fold light streaming in the bright space between heaven and earth;
The juncture of mountain and sea is the loveliest spot between heaven and earth.
There is an hourglass in which golden sand flows downward along with time;
There is a water bottle in which air bubbles float upward in search of air.
Outside, a torrential rainfall weaves an ambiguous sentiment for the Traveler.
In a castle a flame sends out an interference signal of attachment.
In a village a little girl carries a bamboo basket and hums a song;
following her grandmother to the garden to pick vegetables.
In the mountains there are seven old men daily meeting by the creek to chat and drink tea.
Photographic light illuminating a huge network of spider webs.
Silvery light of the new moon rippling out on the surface of the stream.
A crowd of people daily compelled to rush about on the same street;
From sunrise to sunset sweat goes from salty to sour.
At times succeeding, at times failing a thousand types of memories stacked high;
Late at night getting a bit of peace and quiet;
intuiting some kind of connection between all creation and the mysterious intention of heaven and earth.
Silently raising eyebrows, looking into the distance, nodding;
personally seeing the Buddha in the Milky Way, holding up a flower.
Standing on this shore, I emulate that subtle smile, so immutable and splendid.
Search light illuminates an old tile-roofed house,
With an old sewing machine chirping away inside. . .
Accompanying the tired strains of an old organ;
Whirling out of a hidden valley of old as of today;
Elegant sounds rising on the wind, permeating a white cloud;
Flowing into that eternal music box, so subtle and profound.

January 25–28, 2002
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Book 8 Seven-stringed Lapis Lazuli Qin of the Sea
—Waking of Insects The mysterious spirit of small things

Horizon sunrise
resplendent gaze transmitted to that mountain top.
Finger lightly plucks the silvery hook of the new moon;
Using the green light of blue jade to sketch a tender leaf.
A pulsing echo reverberates on the horizon;
Why has she never heard it?
The land of the native place quietly controls the six types of earthquakes in the universe;
Who is able to wake up by the sound of the first ray of daylight?
To vigorously dance in its light?
To roll up the flag of daylight at the end of the day?
To call back the erstwhile gnosis of the phantom city?
inclining towards the moonlight in search of a dream.
The land of sleepwalking and vain imagining, that lovely blue and green illusion.


Sea water, clear waves following wind blowing up foam.
A certain youth has an arc fitted with a horizontal shoulder pole;
he uses it to carry the sun and moon.
The sound of a pipa rises up from a boat on a lake;
On the shore the Shepherd Boy plays his flute in harmony.
In a serene old house a hermit gently plucks a seven-stringed qin.
Daylight reveals a mystical ocean-seal;
Lapis Lazuli permeating throughout space pouring into the galaxy.
A Ferghana horse gallops through space, painting a dazzling banner.
A crane meanders inside a cloud;
Wondering where it’s come from and where it’s going;
Silent; for sake of love it leaves through a gap.
Space; moved by pity for sentient beings;
turning into leaf upon withered leaf, dropping and then pursuing the fallen flowers;
Following the flow, rushing about calling out to them, but they don’t look back.


There is an old map of that native place;
it’s suspended in midair in a gorgeous landscape painting.
At Biefeng there is an uninvited guest a mysterious cave;
containing that eternal seed-like flame.
A single beam of daylight penetrates through 10,000 years of ice and ushers in the spring of the spirit,
Irrigating the green orchard filled with a thousand fruits.
Yet, seeing a nine-petaled hibiscus suspended above the crystal clear water;
A flower smiles at the Traveler asking:
“How can you stand by and watch her pick that flower and take it away?”
A wish-fulfilling tree suspended in space above a mountain peak Waking of Insects
spring thunder fills the air.
The mysterious spirit of little things like
innumerable stars springing up from the earth.
In the west the red sun beats a drum in the east a purple light strikes a gong;
Flying horse gallops through a lovely sea of flowers in spring.
Powerful sun, right in the center water is born, trees rise;
A familiar taste turns out to be a bumper crop of fruit.


Filling space with loving kindness genuine affection stitching up silence.
A wandering mind requires a non-reversing sailboat to get it back on course;
The Vagrant needs to be guided by an eternal lamp flame.
Charcoal fire, glistening image of a candle.
Red with green depicting two-dimensional space.
In the snap of a finger a lamp drops three blossoms.
Old house in a green valley coming from afar to see the Visitor;
former bamboo fence transformed into the firewall of today.
Vehicle speeding like flowing water in front of the door buildings tall as a mountain;
rising up behind the house with the red-tile roof.
A phantom city looming over a 300-year-old three-section house.

A lone sail in the great sea;
Conveying that sack of primordial chaos containing
a water-bottle stand with a sun-moon heaven-earth emblem in the center.
An irrepressible celestial wind blows up a raging sea, waves rolling up time.
Now hot, now cold, folding up the months and years.
There is a person who is drunk by day, sober at night each thought another worry.
Every night the God of Sleep invites her to enter a dream and share a pillow.
When the people here are getting ready for bed;
The people in the south are getting ready to get up.
Waves and billows pounding the shore and rolling up;
Over and over again, not a high IQ.
Above the supremely bright North Star;
illuminating the nighttime activities of human beings.
Unknowingly from the fragrant cave of autumn emerges spring;
Under the ice the warm blanket, the winter’s sun, tells her to not get up.
A palace, taller than tall is
the arena representing all types of people.


Who has put up this bridge of rotting wood? bewildering sentiment, entangling action;
making a sound and immediately falling into the same old tune.
Using the reflective mind to hunt and kill silence.
Vain imaginings lie in ambush in the field of the mind.
Sound forces the ear to follow the latest trend;
form leads the eyes into confusion.
Who is that off in the distance striking a reverberating gong?
Could it be the gods preparing for a distant journey?
Within the eye a fiercely burning fire appears;
chaos giving rise to confusion.
Clarity is to be found in the initial movement of the mind;
Lightning ignites a conflagration.


Full moon silently coursing in the middle of the water;
Two little girls in a boat, brought to the middle of the river by an adverse wind;
unable to paddle to shore frightened.
A youth quickly swims out to their rescue;
Using wisdom and courage, he drops the sail and brings the boat safely to shore;
The gurgling sound of flowing water . . .
A bubble suddenly appears on the marvelous sea of the mind drifting about in the wind;
only when there is light and form do the defilements appear.
Fish in a stream, stirring up foam magically appearing and disappearing;
Who can settle that wandering cloud, born of emptiness and returning to emptiness.


Circulating white muddy
applying the feeling of a colored feather.
Contemplating stepping back from thought;
Observing perceptions, inspecting memories spirit concealed in a region of the bright mind.
Eagle flying above moving clouds spirit mountain, meandering water, 59.5°.
Curious scene; searching all about,
Heaven and earth, a gallery conscripting the eyes.
In the air, morning fog and mist;
On the periphery of a dew collector, a glittering drop of dew ready to fall.
A gust of wind, a shower of rain;
A mischievous child teased by Heaven.
A window pane swept clean of images past;
Like so many old photographs stored away in a cupboard.


Moonlight comes flooding in from all directions;
Green fields past now the immortal sage is no longer seen.
In the sea of dream, the ancient God of Fire incinerates all the illusory impressions of the natural world;
pale Milky Way roaming in the boundless vault of heaven.
Things change, stars move, like the glittering red flame of a lantern;
Sun and moon circulating, a pair of eyes moving, rolling, clear water.
Universe, resplendent sea of stars like
a web of optical fibers spread in the sky.
A single mote of dust reveals all the realms of the ten directions;
A single scroll rolled up 84,000 times;
A doughnut coiling from without circling, circling;
A newborn baby, from winter returning to spring;
inside, a genial wind blows warm.
The day before the day before glistening light of autumn waves unable to cover up the white awns.
Today and today a store of memories flowing, flowing.
Tomorrow and tomorrows a lovely dream calls out.

—January 28, 30, 31, 2002; February 1, 2002
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Book 9 Dreaming in a Nine-dimensional Illusion and a Moonlight Pantomime

On stage, two or three people offstage, eighty or ninety thousand;
Her dream play, half-century run.
The East Wind smugly says to the short grass:
“I’m the one who pulled you up during the Waking of Insects!”
The White Flower recollects last year’s rainy season:
“Fallen flower petals covering the mountain, rivers red with silt . . .”
From the eaves of the old pavilion murmuring rain drops join into water curtains;
Luxuriant and well-spaced branches swayed by a gentle wind.
Sandy shore mudskippers happily frolic about;
For you, time is like bean curd; you slice it up and sell it at bargain prices.
Villa with a banner can a vestige of last night’s moonlight remain in the French doors?
What is a question mark? In what sense are the defilements ineffable and groundless?
Anxiety ready to set off that dormant volcano;
harmonious chaos, strolling along.
Lightning just like an ember streaking through the cold cold night.
Youths speeding along an imaginary highway;
with top speed showing off a pair of trembling palms.
Spring wind and white flowers love to play hide-and-seek;
Figs fond of bursting forth from the riprap pile of broken urns and tile shards.
Moon ascends the Traveler remains in the ancient city;
searching for a treasure chest of lost tales of old.


Night flight Milky Way of glimmering stars over the Pacific.
Why does she daily muck around in the mire in the same way?
The literary beauty and elegant language of yesterday is disappearing;
Slowly being supplanted by the chilling winter of digital writing.
Who is able to master the flow of emotions, pass through nine dimensions of communication then
hang a genial landscape painting in the hot-blooded midsummer sky?
Yet perceiving that that wonderful sound in a vast and boundless place has no place to circle.
Yet within silence gestating;
that beguiling rhapsody takes the playful spring,
Hooks a circle onto it, and pulls it with a horizontal rope
into the first beam of light.
Guess what it is?
An old dilapidated house with a courtyard next to
a mural on a moonlit stone wall in that native-place.


The present master, on the eve of today,
Set out a seat for the previous buddha under the bodhi tree.
Leaves dropped by celestial maidens;
Eyes moist with tears having never seen before.
Compassion is for the sake of primordial wisdom long enclosed inside a mineral deposit;
At present, even a golden hatchet can’t split it apart.
Moved, but the essence is lost;
Signs now also disappear;
What remains has only a few functions.
See that bright sword, directing the mind.
leaving and entering its scabbard . . .

Spiraling wonderful thoughts reckoning in the magnetic levitation train of vain imaginings
Ancient inexhaustible treasure buried
snow and ice filling the sky, a silvery world extending 800 li.
I once told you a true story about an urchin.
At that time the off-road vehicle was speeding faster than the wind;
Under the sky millions of banners converge into countless cities.
Vast mountains, ancient rivers still nestle up to the earth;
Winding their way to a beautiful new century.

Guess the Lantern Festival riddle—
Why has no lamp ever been lit in the room of eternal darkness?
who is the first to wake from the lifelong dream?
What’s it like when the lamp is lit? Omnipresent brightness is not obscured.
What’s it like after the lamp is lit? Yisujue arrives at the emptiness of emptiness beyond the chiliocosm.
A water bottle sitting quietly, bathing in the Milky Way.
Polaris directs a resplendent moonlight serenade of 10,000 flower buds;
On an old cliff pine needles already moved past 12 coordinates;
that story of tomorrow as though unsaid.
Who has planted the craving and desire of sentient beings into the field of dreams?
Now happy, now sad; all the work of wanton craving.
Thought of desire rushing on like a tall waterfall;
is it poaching, or merely adventuring?
Child fantasizes about learning how to dance on a water bubble like a pixie;
Duckweed excitedly tells the dragonflies about its peregrinations.
Suffering equal to happiness confusion goes with awakening;
in the wink of an eye, mind returns 8,000 li.
Precious marks of beauty and dignity;
Eastern wind blows red rain down off the green summit;
An ingenious skillful means.
Chirping of birds, wonderful sound; freeze-frame peak, leaf banner like a splash-ink painting;
Pure white unsullied essence.
See that seven-colored rainbow forming light by dialysis;
all stacked together in disarray, making darkness.
A green caterpillar climbs the green tree;
A graceful butterfly strolls amongst the flowers.
Spring sunlight approaching on foot;
The plants and trees facing the sun are the first to bud.
A dark cloud sails in on the eastern wind;
The vegetation facing the frontal surface is the first to be baptized.




Guests visit like returning home;
Living in one’s own house is most comfortable from today onwards,
no longer a stranger harassed by the wind, rain, and dust.
The cicadas agree to meet on top of the tree tonight to watch the stars;
The spring frogs call out to men Don’t yield;
sulking autumn sun lingers in the joyous and bright flower season.
A great mountain hides in the corner of the eye.
Dull thunder sticks out its red tongue;
Grandmother wind soaked to the bone.
A dragonfly’s toe touches that wonderfully august lotus leaf;
gently swaying.
Butterfly fond of smirking while watching the fish in the stream;
By virtue of the spring sun the slumbering earth creates an inconceivable situation.

A white wheel, full and bright, hangs motionlessly in the vast sky;
Moon in water, following the current east and west there is no bridge it doesn’t pass.
Moon in a dream, restless; yet good at manifesting the true self;
Moved towards a pair of bright eyes spreading crows feet.
Leaves elegantly dancing blackleg tortoise shells fluttering about.
There is a thousand-year-old pine entwined by a curving Largerstoemia subcostata.
Strings plucked by the wind their subtle sound is conveyed far and wide;
Flowers and grass in a rural village presently performing spring love.
Tomorrow is the Birth of Spring, February 3, 2002;
North shrouded in rime vast expanse of white.
Sea of clouds filling the sky, a blue door opens;
Silvery screen floats up in the night.
Daytime freeze frame, yesterday’s space;
Old farming village, every family preparing red tortoise cakes to offer to the God of Spring.
When a person contacts an object the mind is tossed about by a thousand reactions, strong enough to topple mountains and overturn seas. . .

Circuitous path;
Two sides lined with half-moon butterbur.
Leaves and branches of leatherleaf interweaving into a heavenly canopy;
The finger of nature lightly nudges the North Star, making wonderful music in a silent key.
Dark firmament performing a pantomime for heaven;
Tranquil surface of a lake a bevy of stars has already lit up a thousand candles.
I personally saw dew forming on a magical green leaf;
Turned out to be the roaming tears of my hometown fellows.
The Wanderer wants to return home,
but he can’t remember the way back. . .
A pair of lonely feet tramples on the dry leaves covering the mountain.
Who can circumvent the passage of time?
At the moment of contact, returning to the summit of the mountain of the spirit;
so that form no longer binds the heart.
See that frigid silver hook
hung on the top of Hehuan Mountain reflecting the white snow.

—February 3, 5, 6, 2002
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Book 10 Same Breath as You

Mother and child heart to heart, perpetually linked;
A theater the size of a bottle;
100,000 people putting on a multi-media performance.
Young surfer waiting for the next big wave;
Separated by 10,000 mountains, the Wanderer sees not the vicissitudes of former days.
Melting snow, the lovely gurgling sound of water;
Moon reveals a sentiment like the murmuring of flowers.
Wisdom, a bypass for circumventing the flow of emotion;
Big flower buds speeding by, turning into small flames;
flying into a the invisible depths beyond perception.
Sparse rain falling on a dark street;
Light plane flying through the sky.
The Drunken Guest staggering along, street lights and car lights all the same;
The vacuous tunnel of time;
Me inside you outside;
No idea where he might be.


Prince of the Sea, beach embracing the dashing feet of the waves;
The Ranger riding in an airborne cage, escorting a monkey up the mountain.
Child in the city, daily warm ups, back to the setting sun, still not knowing himself.
See that pot full of yams, taros, sweet potatoes, and radishes, already cooked.
A period . falling through space;
Bygones, 3,000 years past, whirling memories.
Six commas , revolving on the periphery.
On the pillow a sleepless dream;
affections, unceasing burden.
Spring flower buds, like billowing foam in summer;
Old man, cheeks engraved with wrinkles by wind and frost.
A bright and shining pair of eyes gazing into the distance, spellbound;
Beloved village, beloved land weather front moves in;
Overcast sky turns to rain.



Winter peony blooming under an icy sky;
Translucent flower petals murmuring in the silence of a winter morning.
Train speeds past the platform;
The Traveler at night waiting in the faint lamplight for the next train to pull in.
The Visitor accidentally drops an old photograph;
seems to be a childhood snapshot from his native place;
Touching off a vision of his silhouette in his earliest memory. . .
Wavering sense faculties stir up a breeze like a butterfly
flapping its flimsy wings, flying towards the horizon.
Toes gently moving like a dragonfly touching the water;
Curling the tongue stimulates the production of saliva eyes one-third open.
Ears hearing the sound of a golden drum echoing between the ear and the setting sun;
An anjali turns the heart away from the defilements, bringing a moment of peace.
Arranging a seat for settling down;
stopping the monkey mind from running madly about.

Embracing the grace of heaven; who is without regret?
An ancient temple ensconced deep in the mountains;
Midnight; the sound of a beating drum spirals around the lotus temple;
spirit spring enters into a hole and a soliloquy,
Turning into a diamond-like brilliant light and coursing through space.
Dusk setting sun spreading red;
transforming into a boundless golden corridor.
Flower dropping petal by petal;
corner eave of an old farmhouse.
A drama of sound and form suddenly unfolds; the face changing technique of Sichuan opera;
Silhouetted lovers in the shade of a great tree; staying up late on New Year’s Eve for a lovely dream;
time itself in silence;
breaking free from the fairy of love and running off.

Listening who is disturbing the God of Spring?
is it the wind; the rain; or is it the playful apricot blossoms?
The great earth, originally a body draped in white;
Now changing into a seven-colored jump suit.
Flowers by the millions each making a prayer;
This spring has a motive force.
The east wind swings its sleeves directing the floating fragrant notes, transmitting them throughout the planetary village;
Reaching the ears of all who tune in.
Dream frolicking amongst numerals.

Bright mirror of wisdom, hunting images in the sea of consciousness;
Fearless vanguard, endowed with quick wit and burning zeal.
Flag bearer in the grip of fear;
pole must be held straighter than straight.
High ladder, as though printing an old footprint;
The Vagrant goes alone, regretting not the silence.
Nightingale cooing unending questions;
why does the God of Fire bathe in the lake?
why is the God of Water baptized in a blazing charcoal fire?
. . .
Who can use innate truth to understand the crowded train of thought?
To transcend time and space so as to arrive at the future? To dissect the structure of desire?
To leave a message with the three fires lit by that original vow? Where is it now?

—February 7, 10, 2002
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Book 11 Legend of the Fire Seed of the Sun
—Ancient lion city in the mystical realm of flowers

I dreamed of an ancient nation,
A dreamlike Arcadia where people and animals lived in harmony.
Some where curious about one another some observed each other;
Some tickled each other, but nobody harmed another.
A pride of lions sported about and I was one of them.
An old tree, beard hanging low to the ground,
A tall waterfall leaping off the edge of a cliff,
Cleansing the sense faculties, washing away the dust, creating purity throughout.
The master of the tea plantation says that last night Xiaogetou was blanketed
By fog extending for many miles,
So dense that you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face.
On the summit, 10,000 yellow chrysanthemums waving to 100,000 colorful butterflies fluttering about;
Fields flooded with white reeds wavering in the wind;
hundreds of egrets with gazes upturned.
2001 lunar calendar New Year’s Eve;
Taipei and Yilan, cherry blossoms dancing about, red bundles hemming the mountains’ green sleeves.
Driving through the source of high altitude peaks;
Lanyang Plain, eyes in array;
Curving beach, fishing boats returning;
3,000 silver sails turning.
Verdant hills deep azure sea;
Off-road vehicle zips along the Suhua Highway;
White clouds in the sky, mincing steps of beauty.
Window glass with floating image of the sea;
then a myriad of forms sweeps into the lens.
Along the road meandering maple leaves, dark red, translucent.
Clear water precipice; tunnels bereft of birdsong.
Twilight streetlights, a golden corridor heading beyond the world.
Soon going through an archway flanked by old pines;
arching inwards to form a canopy providing refreshing shade.
Nostalgic for home, pursuing an illusion;
Dreaming of drifting in the ocean of consciousness.
Airborne goshawk peers down at the fish frolicking in the sea.
A distinctive local accent comes in from far away;
the remote control Wanderer, ever ruffled by sticky emotion;
Imagining stealing into that lovely native place.
I resonate with the pulse of heaven and earth.
Birdsong accompanies fragrance of flowers dancing in the spring wind.
Lunar New Year’s Day, just before sunrise.
Circumambulating the Buddha seven times suddenly hearing
the continual sound of flowing water;
Then seeing a vast expanse of land and sea—fragrant, bright, august, peerless.



Speaking raindrops mute falling leaves;
The nautilus concealed in its shell.
Deep fragrance below his feet, all because of formerly treading on the spring mud;
a lifetime of feelings, all just a marvelous dream.
口口 sound, sound nothing sought, nothing not sought.
Signlessness just like an orange bolt of lightning;
flashing forth only to be apprehended by the light.
It’s said that conforming to others is actually an expedient means.
Children enjoy the New Year,
But adults often reminisce about the good old days 3,000 years past.
In the early spring a thousand shoots suddenly appear on the old branches of an Indian olive tree.
New Year’s Day, a 6.2 earthquake at 11.27 a.m.
false alarm shouts of glee, the world is at peace.


Drizzle old tree frozen, thousand drops of dew;
A gust of wind in the twinkling of an eye, giving it all to the soil.
Butterfly disguised as a flower, perched with leaves on the end of a branch;
Deep stream, limpid wave, following the current unsullied.
Long wave-filled river carrying thoughts of past mistakes;
Form and voice image and sound.
Magic power of karma infuses the heart, disturbing its clarity, all in a dream;
candles vying to be the reddest.
Branches and stems, five shoots growing 13,579 pieces;
Who is capable of tasting the charm on those tender shoots
in the Birth of Spring?
Virtual animation the song of heaven and earth
closes the window of confusion.
There is a wooded path leading directly to a secret realm amongst the flowers.
The fire seed of the sun said:
“Wait for the mulberries to ripen, for the black bulbul in the Expository Notes on the Awakening of Faith is bound to return!

—Lunar New Year’s Day, 2002
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Book 12 Hometown of the Rock

Flowering rape fields limpid yellow, deep gold;
Village footpath flanked by red, purple, blue, and green.
Glimmering creek water drawing out an inverted image of the mountains;
Peaks and ridges strung on the horizon clouds speeding past like galloping white horses.
Minerals unbroken gold unstartled;
100 flowers strolling in the spring sun.
Clouds undispersed moon unrevealed;
Billions of stars crouching at the center of the Milky Way.
Mind of the sage hidden away beyond the world;
A child fond of dreaming paints a colorful rainbow on the floating clouds.
It’s said that in the hometown of the rock there are rock animals;
Heavenly maidens regularly perform a wonderful dance and release a shower of flowers.
The willows softly recite poetry;
unwilling to remain out of the limelight, all because of emptiness.
Wishing for spring, yet bewildered by the traces of five-colored dust;
Image, shape, light, form;
an attraction ever calling out.
A thought contacts, enters instantly overturning the sea of consciousness;
Limpid waves forthwith turning into 10,000 galloping steeds.



From time immemorial seeking that great trichiliocosm;
Not just by wishing, but also by according with conditions.
Wandering in the region of dust from
past, present, and future lives; all appear as though a dream, yet a dream to be conformed to.
Pouring over ancient and precious palm-leaf scriptures;
Dharma cloud and jewel moon enveloped in the bud of a blue lotus.
The silent and bright mirror of truth waits for you to raise your head and look;
longing for that bright clear sky.
Sentient beings enter into samadhi the sage tells them that’s not it;
the profound gem on the net of appearances exhorts them to come out.
Vain imaginings, illusions turning red bright;
Moon shadow, brightly spinning inside a five-cloud palm-leaf scripture.
How can a stone mirror produce sandalwood incense?
vision filled by that green hill beyond the wisteria hedge.
Who is removing the images from each of these old photos?
Is it due to extreme ignorance that even a thousand thoroughbred horses can’t pull it?
Street scene at night solitary streetlight;
The Traveler’s tiny silhouette just like
a whirling mass of dust engulfing a grain of sand.
Beach at sunset solitary flame burns;
First rays of the rising sun linking the mountains into a shield;
yet unable to infringe upon the eagle’s territorial air space.
Under the daylight last night the rainwater formed into a pool,
Water and sky spotlessly clear.

A gravel road covered with moss;
An ancient way long untraversed.
In a dream the sound of a raindrop from abroad meets the ear;
Graceful notes tracing the wind, coming to visit all the gods above the clouds.
Old ox hides behind a precipice white egret on the corner of a wall crane’s its neck;
Shepherd Boy, as though dozing off beneath a pine tree;
An especially adorable monster painted by a child.
Adults have the greatest difficulty getting over a demonic curse.
Peony ready to bloom inner and outer forces drawing on one another;
Painting a circle as a throne;
sound of footsteps in the ten directions walking on four sides.
Evening banquet in a mulberry field a thousand wavering lamps and candles;
People coming, people going sumptuous words bind not an innocent babe.
Stairway with a moving rail folds up the image of a dream;
Memories of an old friend, packed up and put into storage.
Child lying prostrate on a big white ox;
Setting sun shining on his belly painted with a big flag.
All things draw on nature;
he who attains the highest state makes the mark.


Initial awakening just like a snow crane yearning for a golden pool;
The original native place is still deep asleep in a dream.
Surging emotion, burning like a red flame;
Who is indebted to his own conscience, allowing the defilements to obscure that bright light?
Those who would pray for happiness ought to see that ebullient kite up in the sky.
A brightly burning eternal flame within;
The flower is red the stamens are yellow the flame is purple.
The sound of a thousand nations enters the ear;
A formation of geese sweeps across the boundless clear sky.
A little girl steps on the dancing shadows cast down by branches;
swinging sleeves moving in rhythm with the leaves and vines.
Seeming as though spring has arrived;
gentle breeze softly playing the mouth organ.
Teardrop on the center of a leaf vacillating;
Nimbus surrounding the rising sun, taking it all in;
Waiting to come back to my senses the ambrosia is already resuscitated beyond the farthest limits of the sky.

—February 14–15, 2002
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