A Buddhist monk named Han Shan got tired of life in the monastery and moved off to the wilderness. He wrote verses on rocks and trees to express his thoughts about life – these were collected and assembled in a text called Cold Mountain.
The clear water sparkles like crystal,
you can see through it easily, right to the bottom.
My mind is free from every thought,
nothing in the myriad realms can move it.
Since it cannot be wantonly roused,
forever and forever it will stay unchanged.
When you have learned to know in this way,
you’ll know there is no inside or out.
Talking about food won’t make you full,
babbling of clothes won’t keep out the cold.
A bowl of rice is what fills the belly;
it takes a suit of clothing to make you warm.
And yet, without stopping to consider this,
you complain that Buddha is hard to find.
Turn your mind within! There he is!
Why look for him outside?
High, high from the summit of the peak,
whatever way I look, no limit in sight!
No one knows I am sitting here alone.
A solitary moon shines in the cold spring.
Here in the spring – this is not the moon.
The moon is where it always is – in the sky above.
And though I sing this one little song,
in the song there is no Zen.
Have I a body or have I none?
Am I who I am or am I not?
Pondering these questions,
I sit leaning against the cliff while the years go by,
till the green grass grows between my feet
and the red dust settles on my head,
and the men of the world, thinking me dead,
come with offerings of wine and fruit to lay by my corpse.
Yes, there are stingy people,
but I’m not one of the stingy kind.
The robe I wear is flimsy? The better to dance in.
Wine gone? It went with a toast and a song.
Just so you keep your belly full –
never let those two legs go weary.
When the weeds are poking through your skull,
That’s the day you’ll have regrets!
Today I sat before the cliff,
sat a long time till mists had cleared.
A single thread, the clear stream runs cold;
a thousand yards the green peaks lift their heads.
White clouds – the morning light is still.
Moonrise – the lamp of night drifts upward.
Body free from dust and stain,
What cares could trouble my mind?