That day, he asked about the Way.
Li Xianyun leaned against a great willow tree by the Daoist grounds.
His hair was tousled and unkempt,
a wine gourd hung from his waist,
and a long sword was strapped to his back.
A cultivator asked, “May I ask what your Dao heart is, senior...?”
Xianyun lifted his eyes. His voice was soft, yet every word reached the listener's ears as he murmured lazily:
“When spring comes, I won't be the first to speak.
How could the insects dare make a sound?”
Several thousand years later,
a monkey demon wielding a staff discussed the Way with Li Xianyun.
He asked, “Without the golden circlet, I can't love her. With it on, I can't save her. On the path of cultivation, cutting off one's feelings may be the hardest thing of all.”
Li Xianyun furrowed his brow and pondered for a moment. “We cultivators should let nature take its course. Cutting off the seven emotions is incompatible with my Dao heart.”
Then he said, “Let me ask you this: so what if that golden circlet squeezes your head until it bursts? If it wants to burst, let it burst.”
With that, he threw back his head and laughed, then rode his flying sword away.
