Robbers never strike at the homes of the poor;
Private wealth does not benefit the entire nation.
Calamity has its source in the accumulated riches of a few,
People who lose their souls for ten thousand coins.
Midnight, can’t sleep,
so I sit up, to try my lute.
Curtains catch moonlight
the pure breeze flutters my sleeves.
A lone swan cries: in wilderness,
and flies, crying, to the north woods,
turning, and turning, and gyring there,
Loneliness; to be alone so
wounds heart and mind.
I sit beneath the cliff, quiet and alone.
Round moon in the middle of the sky’s a bird ablaze:
all things are seen mere shadows in its brilliance,
that single wheel of perfect light …
Alone, its spirit naturally comes clear.
Swallowed in emptiness in this cave of darkest mystery,
because of the finger pointing, I saw the moon.
That moon became the pivot of my my heart.