Nothing whatever is hidden;
From of old, all is clear as daylight.

There is no place to seek the mind;
It is like the footprints of the birds in the sky.

Above, not a piece of tile to cover the head;
Beneath, not an inch of earth to put one’s foot on.

The water before, and the water after,
Now and forever flowing, follow each other.

If you do not get it from yourself,
Where will you go for it?

If you wish to know the road up the mountain,
You must ask the man who goes back and forth on it.

Falling mist flies together with the wild ducks;
The waters of autumn are of one color with the sky.

If you don’t believe, just look at September, look at October!
The yellow leaves falling, falling, to fill both mountain and river.

Scoop up the water and the moon is in your hands;
Hold the flowers and your clothes are scented with them.

Mountains and rivers, the whole earth,
All manifest forth the essence of being.
In the vast inane there is no back or front;
The path of the bird annihilates East and West.

From of old there were not two paths;
„Those who have arrived“ all walked the same road.

Day after day the sun rises in the east;
Day after day it sets in the west.

Ever onwards to where the waters have an end;
Waiting motionless for when the white clouds shall arise.

Wind subsiding, the flowers still fall;
Bird crying, the mountain silence deepens.

To save life it must be destroyed.
When utterly destroyed, one dwells for the first time in peace.

Heat does not wait for the sun, to be hot.
Nor wind the moon, to be cool.

Like a sword that cuts, but cannot cut itself;
Like an eye that sees, but cannot see itself.

Ride your horse along the edge of a sword;
Hide yourself in the middle of the flames.

You cannot get it by taking thought;
You cannot seek it by not taking thought.

It is like a tiger, but with many horns;
Like a cow, but it has no tail.

Draw water, and you think the mountains are moving;
Raise the sail, and you think the cliffs are on the run.

The blue hills are of themselves blue hills;
The white clouds are of themselves white clouds.

In the landscape of spring there is neither high nor low;
The flowering branches grow naturally, some long, some short.

He holds the handle of the how, but his hands are empty;
He rides astride the water-buffalo, but he is walking.

Entering the forest he moves not the grass;
Entering the water he makes not a ripple.

Meeting, they laugh and laugh;
The forest grove, the many fallen leaves!

We sleep with both legs outstretched,
Free of the true, free of the false.

For long years a bird in a cage,
Today, flying along with the clouds.

Sehr schöne Poesie. Das „Zenrin Kushu“ ist eine Sammlung von Texten aus dem Zen mit ungefähr 5000 Versen.  Gefunden im Taoismus Forum .

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