Death Poem

Empty-handed I entered the world

Barefoot I leave it.

My coming, my going --

Two simple happenings

That got entangled.

Kozan Ichikyo, died February 12, 1360, at 77

A few days before his death, Kozan called his pupils together, ordered them to bury him without ceremony, and forbade them to hold services in his memory. He wrote this poem on the morning of his death, laid down his brush and died sitting upright.

(http://www.salon.com/weekly/zen960805.html)

A person gaining satori is like the moon nestling in water. The moon remains dry, the water unbroken. A broad, intense glow nestles in inches of water; the entirety of the orb and arching sky both nestle even in the dew on a reed, nestle even in a single drop of water. Just as the moon does not pierce the water, satori does not rend the person. Just as the dewdrop does not obstruct the moon, the person does not obstruct satori. [One is] deep to the extent [the other] is high. The longer you probe the shallows and depths, the broader the moon you should discern in the heavens.

Truth Unfolding, Eihei Dogen's Shobogenzo Genjokoan translation by Bob Myers.