Sun down. The ninth hour of the day. Except for the deserted wilderness, what is there to protect?

Golden darkness. The tenth hour of the day. Sitting alone in the darkness of a single empty room.

For ever unbroken by flickering candlelight, The purity in front of me is pitch black.
Not even hearing a bell vacantly passing the day,
I hear only the noisy scurrying of old rats.
What more has to be done to have feelings?
Whatever I think is a thought of Paramita.

 
Bedtime. The eleventh hour of the day.
The clear moon in the front of the gate, to whom is it begrudged?

Going back inside, my only regret is that its time to go to sleep,
Besides the clothes on my back, what covers are needed?
Head monk Liu, ascetic Change, Talking of goodness with their lips, how wonderful!
No matter if my empty bag is emptied out,
If you ask about it, you’d never understand all the reasons for it.

 

Midnight, Twelfth hour of the day. This feeling, how can it cease even for a moment?

Thinking of the people in the world who have left home,
It seems like I’ve been a temple priest for a long time now.
A dirt bed, a torn reed mat,
An old elm-block pillow without any padding.
To the Holy Image not offering any Arabian incense
In ashes hearing only the shitting of the ox.

Submitted December 27, 2018 at 09:11AM by seigando http://bit.ly/2Sk5pSs