sick of it whatever it's called sick of the names
I dedicate every pore to what's here

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.
A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.
Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;
Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.

Like vanishing dew,
a passing apparition
or the sudden flash
of lightning -- already gone --
thus should one regard one's self.

Dream Song of Thunders:

Sometimes
I go about pitying
Myself,
While I am carried by the wind
Across the sky.

The plants and flowers
I raised about my hut
I now surrender
To the will
Of the wind

Never forget:
we walk on hell,
gazing at flowers.