A Buddhist monastery across a stone bridge—
here I would sweep away the dust of confusion
and call upon the Hui-yüan of our day.
His home is between two sala trees,
among the cold clouds,
while he walks deep in the mountains,
holding one sandal in his hands.
The roar of a waterfall
sounds like pure Sanskrit chanting;
evening wind sings in pine trees
beyond the courtyard.
Why cling to Causality and insist
on seeing him face to face?
One reading of the poem he has left behind
and my inner self
returns to the Void.