spirit prisoner himself
is like a mirage of black mud
The more the stirred, the more troubled
Hence births and deaths amounted
Torment and doubts
The mind must be free of himself
and reach its own emptiness
And how the mind must free himself from himself?
Simply turning like a glove
The mirage of black mud is only
underfoot
Above the man's head
the mountain is green and transparent sky
Zendo
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