---
title: "趙州和尚語錄 · 十二時歌"
description: "赵州从谂禅师是唐代著名禅宗高僧其语录由弟子文远记录后世有大参重校和明声重刻本流传内容汇集了赵州接引学人的机锋对话公案禅语生动展现了南宗禅的生活化与直指人心之特色赵州茶等著名公案广为流传影响深远该语录是研究禅宗临济宗思想的重要文献在佛教史上地位崇高对后世禅风及中日韩禅学发展皆有深刻影响"
url: "https://rushiwowen.co/en/r/cmgn0oimf0gxyjl04gu9uyl3o"
---

### 十二時歌

> Song of the Twelve Hours

雞鳴丑，愁見起來還漏逗。裙子褊衫箇也無，袈裟形相些些有。褌無腰，褲無口，頭上青灰三五斗。北望修行利濟人，誰知變作不唧溜。

> At the crow of the cock in the hour of the ox, I wake in sorrow, still lingering in the night. No skirt or simple robe do I possess, Only a monk's robe, a semblance slight. My undergarment lacks a waistband's hold, My trousers torn and frayed at every seam. Upon my head, a layer of ash, three to five measures old. I look northward, practicing to benefit and redeem, But who would guess I've become so worn and lean?

平旦寅，荒村破院實難論。解齋粥米全無粒，空對閑窗與隙塵。唯雀噪，勿人親，獨坐時聞落葉頻。誰道出家憎愛斷，思量不覺淚沾巾。

> In the quiet hours before dawn, this remote village and dilapidated temple are truly beyond description. For the morning meal, not a single grain of rice remains, and I face only the empty window and the dust in the cracks. Only the sparrows chatter, with no one to keep me company. Sitting alone, I constantly hear the sound of falling leaves. Who says that leaving home severs all affection? Thinking of this, I cannot help but feel tears soak my handkerchief.

日出卯，清淨卻翻為煩惱。有為功德被塵幔，無限田地未曾掃。攢眉多，稱心少，叵耐東村黑黃老。供利不曾將得來，放驢喫我堂前草。

> At sunrise, purity turns into turmoil. Merits of action are veiled by dust, endless fields left unswept. Frowns are many, contentment rare—how vexing, that old man from East Village! He never brings offerings, yet lets his donkey graze on grass before my hall.

食時辰，煙火徒勞望四鄰。饅頭䭔子前年別，今日思量空嚥津。持念少，嗟歎頻，一百家中無善人。來者秪道覓茶喫，不得茶噇去又嗔。

> At mealtime, smoke rises in vain as I gaze at the neighbors' homes. Steamed buns and pastries, gone since years past— today, thinking of them, I can only swallow empty saliva. Few hold to mindfulness, frequent are the sighs; in a hundred households, not one virtuous person. Those who come only ask for tea to drink— if they get no tea, they leave in anger.

禺中巳，削髮誰知到如此。無端被請作村僧，屈辱饑悽受欲死。胡張三，黑李四，恭敬不曾生些子。適來忽爾到門頭，唯道借茶兼借紙。

> At mid-morning, who would have thought shaving my head would lead to this? Unwittingly invited to serve as the village monk, I endure humiliation, hunger, and misery, almost to death. Old Zhang the Third, Dark Li the Fourth— not an ounce of respect have they ever shown. Just now they suddenly appeared at my gate, only to ask for tea and to borrow paper.

日南午，茶飯輪還無定度。行卻南家到北家，果至北家不推註。苦沙鹽，大麥醋，蜀黍米飯虀萵苣。唯稱供養不等閑，和尚道心須堅固。

> The sun is high at noon, meals and tea follow no fixed schedule. Walking from the southern house to the northern house, arriving at the northern house, no refusal is given. Bitter sand-salt, barley vinegar, sorghum rice with pickled lettuce— all are offered with no ordinary care. The monk’s resolve must remain firm.

日昳未，者回不踐光陰地。曾聞一飽忘百饑，今日老僧身便是。不習禪，不論義，鋪箇破蓆日裏睡。想料上方兜率天，也無如此日炙背。

> In the afternoon sun, I don't waste a moment of time. I've heard that one full meal makes you forget a hundred hungers—today, this old monk is exactly that. I don't practice meditation, I don't discuss doctrine, I just spread out a worn mat and sleep in the daylight. I imagine even in the heavenly realms above, there's nothing quite like basking in the sun like this.

晡時申，也有燒香禮拜人。五箇老婆三箇癭，一雙面子黑皴皴。油麻茶，實是珍，金剛不用苦張筋，願我來年蠶麥熟，羅睺羅兒與一文。

> In the late afternoon, there are still people offering incense and paying respects. Five old women, three with goiters, faces dark and wrinkled. Sesame tea, truly precious — Vajra guardians need not strain in hardship. May next year bring abundant silkworms and wheat, And may I offer a coin to Rāhula.

日入酉，除卻荒涼更何守。雲水高流定委無，歷寺沙彌鎮長有。出格言，不到口，枉續牟尼子孫後。一條拄丈觕楋蔾，不但登山兼打狗。

> As the sun sets in the west, what remains to guard but desolation? Drifting clouds and flowing waters vanish without a trace, Yet temple novices endure, ever-present. Words of wisdom left unspoken, Fail to carry the Buddha's legacy forward. A rough staff of thorny wood, Not just for climbing mountains, but also for warding off dogs.

黃昏戌，獨坐一間空暗室。陽焰燈光永不逢，眼前純是金州漆。鍾不聞，虛度日，唯聞老鼠鬧啾唧。憑何更得有心情，思量念箇波羅蜜。

> In the evening, alone I sit in an empty, dark room. No lamp’s glow ever reaches here— only pitch-black darkness before my eyes. I hear no bell, the day passes in vain, just the squeaking and scurrying of mice. How, then, can I find the heart to contemplate the Perfection of Wisdom?

人定亥，門前明月誰人愛。向裏唯愁臥去時，勿箇衣裳著甚蓋。劉維那，趙五戒，口頭說善甚奇怪。任你山僧囊罄空，問著都緣總不會。

> At the hour of deep night, who truly cherishes the bright moon before the door? Turning inward, one only worries when lying down to rest— What clothes to wear, what cover to use. Brother Liu, Venerable Zhao, Your spoken words of goodness sound so strange. Even if this mountain monk’s bag is utterly empty, When questioned, you still cannot grasp the reason.

半夜子，心境何曾得暫止。思量天下出家人，似我住持能有幾。土榻床，破蘆䉬，老榆木枕全無被。尊像不燒安息香，灰裏唯聞牛糞氣。

> In the dead of night, my mind finds no rest at all. I think of all the monks in the world—how many can truly uphold the practice like I do? A dirt bed, a tattered reed mat, an old elm-wood pillow, no quilt at all. No incense is burned before the honored image, only the smell of cow dung ash fills the air.