What quiet loneliness fills the autumn air, as I lean on my staff. The wind turns cold. A solitary village lies shrouded in mist, by a country bridge. A figure passes, bound for home. An old crow comes to roost in the ancient forest. Lines of wild geese slant toward the horizon. Only a monk in black robes remains standing motionless by the river, at twilight.
On the first day of the eighth month, I go into town to beg. The doors of a thousand homes are flung open. The smoke of a myriad hearths slants through the air. Last night’s rain has washed the road clean, and an autumn wind rustles the rings of my staff.
I take my time begging. The universe is vast, without end. A riot of fallen petals covers the deserted stairs. The songs of lovely birds mingle in a gorgeous brocade. Soft and languid, sunlight pours from my window. A slender column of smoke floats above the open hearth.
Its quiet, my little three mat hut. The whole day long, not a soul to be seen. I sit and meditate by my lonely window. The only sound: the endlessly falling leaves.
Every season has its moon, but this is the moon that I prize above all. Mountains in autumn soar. Waters are limpid. In a cloudless sky, stretching ten thousand leagues, spins a solitary mirror. Originally its brightness does not exist. Nor do the objects it illumines. When brightness and objects are both forgotten, who is it that remains.
In the chill autumn air, the heavens seem boundless. I take my staff and roam the mountains’ green forested slopes. Everywhere I look, the world is vast, clear, without a trace of dust. I see only the autumn moon growing in brightness. Who is it tonight, watching this moon? Who is the autumn moon shining upon? Autumn after autumn, it goes on shining. Men stand before it, and stare. Yet enlightenment passes them by.
The Buddha’s sermon on the vulture peak, The Six Patriarchs pointing to the mind, all these reveal the wonders of moonlight.
Immersed in my poem, beneath the moon, the night has deepened.
In every eddy of the deep-flowing stream, the moon appears; as if in a forest of dew-drops.
The sun sets, and all living things cease to stir. I too close my brushwood gate. A few crickets begin to chirp. The color of grasses and trees has faded. Burning stick after stick of incense, I meditate through the long autumn night. When my body gets cold, I put on more clothes.
Practice hard, fellow students of Zen. Time is gone, before you realize.
Buddha is a conception of your mind. The way isn’t anything that is made.
Now that I’ve told you this, take it to heart. Don’t let yourself be misled.