A monk asked Ta Lung, “The physical body rots away: what is the hard and fast body of reality?”
Lung said, “The mountain flowers bloom like brocade, the valley streams are brimming blue as indigo.”
Asking without knowing.
Answering, still not understanding.
The moon is cold, the wind is high—
On the ancient cliff, frigid juniper.
How delightful: on the road he met a man who had attained the Path,
And didn’t use speech or silence to reply.
His hand grasps the white jade whip
And smashes the black dragon’s pearl.
If he hadn’t smashed it,
He would have increased its flaws.
The nation has a code of laws—
Three thousand articles of offenses.