他無蹤跡 No Trace of Him No Sound
也曾雞啼就報曉，也曾天晚送黃昏。不知化銅的道人歸何處，鑄銅匠作那邊存。想他二命歸陰府，他無蹤跡你無聲。」也曾鸡啼就报晓，也曾天晚送黄昏。不知化铜的道人归何处，铸铜匠作那边存。想他二命归阴府，他无踪迹你无声。」
逐句解 Line by line
You too once announced the dawn when the cock crowed, you too once saw the yellow dusk away at the end of the day.
Four clauses in a row have opened with the same three characters, "you too once." The repetition is the whole music of the speech, and it is the sound of somebody listing what a thing used to be for.
I do not know where the Daoist who smelted the bronze has gone, nor on what side the founder who cast it remains.
The 那 in 那邊 is the question word, nǎ — on which side, matching the "where" in the clause before. Both halves of the couplet are asking the same unanswerable thing about two different men.
I suppose the two of them have gone down to the shades, and he leaves no trace and you make no sound."
跡 is jì, a trace or footprint. The closing seven characters set a man with no trace against a bell with no voice, and the two silences answer each other exactly.
This is the finest thing Tripitaka says in the chapter and it is spoken to a lump of metal. He has taken the bell's biography — tower, beams, cockcrow, dusk — and then asked after the men who made it, and concluded that all three are equally gone.
The last line is beautifully balanced. The founder has left no trace; the bell makes no sound. One vanished and the other is still here, and the chapter treats those as the same kind of absence.
It also tells you something about the man that the argument earlier did not. Left alone for a minute, with no one to persuade and nothing to decide, what he does is grieve for a piece of bronze and the strangers who cast it. Whatever his judgement is worth, the feeling behind it is real, and this is the passage that proves it.