[Illustration: Drawing of a shore line]
_face p. 365_
_Returning to the Origin, Back to the Source._ From the very beginning,
pure and immaculate, he has never been affected by defilement. He
calmly watches the growth and decay of things with form, while himself
abiding in the immovable serenity of non-assertion. When he does not
identify himself with magic-like transformations, what has he to do
with artificialities of self-discipline? The water flows blue, the
mountain towers green. Sitting alone, he observes things undergoing
changes.
To return to the Origin, to be back at the Source—already a false step
this!
Far better it is to stay home, blind and deaf, straightway and without
much ado,
Sitting within the hut he takes no cognisance of things outside,
Behold the water flowing on—whither nobody knows; and those flowers
red and fresh—for whom are they?
X
[Illustration: Drawing of a monk carrying a sack and basket passing by
a fisherman]
_face p. 366_
_Entering the City with Bliss-bestowing Hands._ His humble cottage
door is closed, and the wisest know him not. No glimpses of his inner
life are to be caught; for he goes on his own way without following
the steps of the ancient sages. Carrying a gourd he goes out into the
market, leaning against a stick he comes home. He is found in company
with wine-bibbers and butchers, he and they are all converted into
Buddhas.
Bare-chested and bare-footed, he comes out into the market-place;
Daubed with mud and ashes, how broadly he smiles!
There is no need for the miraculous power of the gods,
For he touches, and lo! the dead trees come into full bloom.