Rivers Are a Spring Is Rivers
An English adaptation of Shitou Xiqian’s Sandōkai 參同契
The shining mind of Buddha
flows heart to heart, sunset to sunrise.
We can run or we can walk —
the path isn’t quick or slow.
The bottom of the well spews starlight,
while the bucket spills black water into night.
We clutch at the mirage we’re born in,
and tumbling into emptiness doesn’t help.
The world I see-hear-taste-feel-smell
is dancers and their dance.
As couples take one step,
every instrument plays its own song —
ballet and burlesque,
sweet notes and sour.
Prayer and profanity fuse in the dark;
the candle shows dregs in the wine.
Things are the way they are,
as sure as every child has a mother.
Fires burn, the wind blows,
the waters flow, the clay settles.
The eye is a vision, the ear a sound,
the nose a fragrance, the tongue a flavor.
It’s the same everywhere you go —
leaves sprout from roots,
trunk and branch become seed.
Call it miracle or mundane.
Darkness lives in light
because by itself it’s not dark.
Light dwells in darkness
because alone it’s not light.
The light and the dark
move toe to heel, heel to toe.
It’s all just something else about to happen,
just whatever this place is doing.
Everything cradles every thing like a peapod.
Each arrow’s split by the next.
Understand what’s meant, not said.
See, without measuring by your shadow.
If we never pay attention,
we cross every trail in the dark.
Any mile on the path gets closer to somewhere;
in the wilderness it’s all mountains and rivers.
If you want to comprehend the mystery,
listen — don’t waste your time!
