At the rooster's crow in the hour of the Ox, I toss and turn, sleep fleeting and brief. The rough wooden bed makes my bones ache, the worn mat—how can I bear to part with it?
At sunrise, the courtyard broom sweeps often, Quickly open the wooden gate wide, A ray of spiritual light shines bright and constant.
At the hour of the meal, Bowl in hand, I go forth with ease, Yet on the road, many wanderers remain, Catching a whiff of the scent, they swallow their thirst in vain.
At the hour of the snake, I pinch my nose and lose my ears; In the bustling market, no one is seen— Bodhidharma left behind a single sandal.
At high noon, the earth shows not an inch of soil; Every household rests in peace and safety. I urge you now: do not act rash or reckless.
In the afternoon drowsiness rises, seeking to exhaust the spirit. The iron heats tea yet finds no place to rest; Within the belly, the fire of ignorance boils in vain.
At dusk, I cannot see my own family clearly, The stone guardian at the crossroads stands firm, They head east to Lu, I journey west to Qin.