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Song Of The Grass Hut
I've built a grass
hut where there's nothing of value.
After eating, I relax and enjoy a nap.
When
it was completed, fresh weeds appeared.
Now it's been lived in-covered by
weeds.
The
person in the hut lives here calmly,
not stuck to inside, outside, or in-between.
Places
worldly people live, he doesn't live.
Realms worldly people love, she doesn't
love.
Though
the hut is small, it includes the entire world.
In ten feet square, an old
man illumines forms and their nature.
A
Mahayana bodhisattva trusts without doubt.
The middling or lowly can't help
wondering;
Will
this hut perish or not?
Perishable or not, the original master is present,
Not
dwelling south or north, east or west.
Firmly based on steadiness, it can't
be surpassed.
A
shining window below the green pines-
jade palaces or vermilion towers can't
compare with it.
Just
sitting with head covered all things are at rest.
Thus, this mountain monk
doesn't understand at all.
Living
here he no longer works to get free.
Who would proudly arrange seats, trying
to entice guests?
Turn
around the light to shine within, then just return.
The vast inconceivable
source can't be faced or turned away from.
Meet
the ancestral teachers, be familiar with their instructions,
bind grasses
to build a hut, and don't give up.
Let
go of hundreds of years and relax completely.
Open your hands and walk, innocent.
Thousands
of words, myriad interpretations,
are only to free you from obstructions.
If
you want to know the undying person in the hut,
don't separate from this skin
bag here and now.
by Shitou Xiqian (Sekito Kisen; 700-790)