Weiyang School

A single spark flares on the surface, free from dual meanings. Three times the door shakes, between the fading of both ends. The monk of Weishan is a water buffalo—look beneath its waist. The mirror of Dongping, the mirror of Weishan—shattered in hand. Thus, both ordinary and holy are forgotten; seeing and walking are both exhausted. In action, it is a single blade thrust straight in; in thoughtlessness, how can the spiritual flame be exhausted? Insert the spade, pull out the spade; hang the foot, bind the foot. Eyes level, looking up at gathering and releasing— not only one or two, two or three. Yet the sword’s edge is singular; two mouths have no tongue. Ninety-six forms arise like clouds; father and son join in one lineage. A single branch of the Weiyang school stands tall.