You were foreordained to find the source.
Now, tracing your way as in a dream
There where the sea floats up the sky,
You wane from the world in your fragile boat....
The water and the moon are as calm as your faith,
Fishes and dragons follow your chanting,
And the eye still watches beyond the horizon
The holy light of your single lantern.
Poem translator: Kiang Kanghu
上国随缘住，来途若梦行。
浮天沧海远，去世法舟轻。
水月通禅寂，鱼龙听梵声。
惟怜一灯影，万里眼中明。
Qian Qi's Song Seng Gui Riben (送僧归日本) is a five-character regulated verse (lüshi) written in the Mid-Tang period, when Japanese monks and scholars frequently travelled to China. The poet is saying goodbye to a Buddhist priest who has finished his studies and is returning east across the sea. The poem opens with a gentle understanding of the monk's life: Shang guo sui yuan zhu, lai tu ruo meng xing. (上国随缘住，来途若梦行。) "You stayed in the Middle Kingdom as your fate allowed. The road here felt like travelling in a dream." The word "sui yuan" (随缘) is a Buddhist term—everything happens according to cause and condition. The monk did not force his journey; he followed the flow of his calling.
The second pair of lines looks ahead to the voyage home: Fu tian cang hai yuan, qu shi fa zhou qing. (浮天沧海远，去世法舟轻。) The blue sea stretches so far that it seems to float up to the sky. Leaving the world of dust behind, the monk's "dharma boat" feels light. In Buddhism, the "fa zhou" (法舟) is the ship of teaching that carries beings across the ocean of suffering to the other shore. Qian Qi uses this image with care: the boat is small and fragile, but because it carries the law, it is also free. The vast ocean is both dangerous and beautiful—a fitting road for a man who has learned to let go.
The middle lines move into the night of the journey: Shui yue tong chan ji, yu long ting fan sheng. (水月通禅寂，鱼龙听梵声。) On the water, the moon is like a reflection in meditation—still, empty, and perfectly clear. The word "shui yue" (水月) is a classic Buddhist image for the illusion of the world, yet also for its quiet beauty. Beneath the surface, fish and dragons rise to listen to the monk's "fan sheng" (梵声)—the sound of Sanskrit chanting. It is a magical picture: the sea creatures themselves are drawn to the holiness of the voyage. The monk is not alone on the dark water; the whole ocean is his temple.
The poem ends with a single point of light: Wei lian yi deng ying, wan li yan zhong ming. (惟怜一灯影，万里眼中明。) "I love most of all the shadow of one lamp. Across ten thousand miles, it is bright in your eyes." The "yi deng" (一灯) is both the real lantern on the boat and the "dharma lamp" of Buddhist wisdom—the light that never goes out. Qian Qi does not wish the monk a safe journey with ordinary words. He gives him something better: the image of a light so steady that even the darkest sea cannot swallow it. The monk will sail for weeks beyond the edge of the world, but the poet's last gift is a light that travels with him.
Classical Chinese poetry thrives on Concision and Ambiguity. Without tense or number, the words create a timeless space where the reader becomes the co-creator of the poem's meaning.
Look for Contrasts: light and shadow, movement and stillness. Don't just translate the words; feel the Yijing (artistic conception) that lingers long after the last character.
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