A true poet is one who treats
Oneself as a sentient being
Who only regards the truth
As the bright moon's disc
Reflected on the water mirror.
He is like a magician
Who regards all people
As creation of magic;
He is the pure Mind himself--
The round Perfection,
Like an antique vessel
For sacrificial offerings.
For all men he is like Oasis
In the middle of desert,
A sound of an echo
Bounced off the steep slope,
A mass of milky clouds
Gathered together around
A high peak, an appearance
And disappearance of the sun,
A bamboo with its empty core,
A flash of lightning across the sky,
A young dragon's emerging
In the field for inexpiable fighting,
A sprout budding from a rotten seed,
A pair of the hare-horn boots,
A piece of the tortoise-fur coat,
A ridicule, especially for all those
Who'd like to be stabbed before too long.
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Ron