Together with water, a bucket, and space
There are reflections in the circle
All things are like this

Ears, sounds, and consciousness give rise to hearing
Perception gives rise to the winter birdsong
If just one is missing, the birdsong is gone
Without the bucket, space, and water
There is nothing reflected in the circle

So it is said that all things are empty

With each new passing moment,
The bucket is emptied and filled
This movement gives rise to turbulence
And all the images are distorted
The birth of affliction

Not only this, but the bucket rots
Holes forming over time
And fulfillment becomes
Ever more scarce

The Way is different for all who walk it
The Paths to peace are many
The destination is one
Already beneath
One’s feet

1) To stop pouring and filling,
The waters calm and the moon
Is undisturbed

2) To see that the bucket is made of wood,
That it came from a tree and will turn to soil

3) To see that reflections are nothing but
And that each movement distorts the view

4) To see that the water fell from the sky
Gathered in pools, and will return to sky

5) What of the space? What of the Mind?
One cannot investigate space
If the water remains

In a flash, knocking it over,
Water spills onto the ground
There is no moon, but there is moonlight
Shining untouched to the bottom

There is nothing much
That can be said of nothing
Joyful peace, shining silence
And that it has always been such

Body, mind, experience, and Original Mind
Bucket, water, reflections, and space

Original Mind is Original Emptiness
Passing through smoke, it vanishes
The wooden winter bird sings clearly,
Isn’t this wonderful?

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