I muse on the stories of old and today,

Who are my bosom friends, whom are they?

To select dutiful men, I reincarnate,

To wake them up and shine their faces.

The faces shone, they elate their Ancestors,

The forebears’s repute going overboard .

Those who can understand the deep mystic,

Must have grasped Madman’s chord.

Madman’s chord is of Mystical Tao,

My forward thoughts churn my guts around.

What a pain to the world, Alas! armageddon,

My sadness is mouthed, yet mutes its sound.

Seemingly mute, it’s hard to say, it’s afraid,

Believers are indifferent and shy away.

A buzz near the wall is heard remote,

Feeble as if grasshoppers resisted chariots.

Chariots desire to crush the flying hoppers,

Who desperately seek to fight the stronger.

Yet, their fate will ensue from the decision,

Taken by a too far-away power holder.

The power generation eventuates in Me,

The cosmic cycle prompts a big calamity.

Who are good people! I will wait for you,

Off human duties, you stop your misery.

Misery from bombardment and carnage,

Bloodied Europe and Asia on a rampage.

If the populace keep craving opulence,

They will later be caught in jail bondage.

To avoid jail bondage, soon listen to Me,

Give alms, keep precepts, be vegies.

Buddhists, cultivate your behaviors,

Prajna boats rescue you from hostilities.

Hostilities should not make you anxious,

Practice and wait for me to the rendez-vous.

The Fairy and Buddhalands look splendid,

Where all terrestrial arrivals are prosperous.

Only if by one father, all are easily provided!

Then all have to get rid of their bad habits.

From above, God and Buddha preside,

I’m exalted when all thrive from beneath.

At Cho Quan Hospital,

The night of 18 July 1940

The Poem Collection of 1940