The swallow has gone, there is a time to come again; the willow is withered, there is a time to be green again; the peach blossom is withered, and there is a time to bloom again. But, wise, tell me, why are our days gone forever? -- someone stole them, didn't they: who was that? And where is it hidden? They ran away by themselves: where are they now?
I don't know how many days they gave me, but my hands do seem to be getting empty. Silently calculating, more than 8,000 days have slipped out of my hand, like a drop of water on the tip of a needle dripping into the sea, my days dripping into the flow of time, no sound, no shadow. I couldn't help getting my head dirty and I was in tears.
Go as you go, come as you come, and in the middle of coming, how in a hurry? When I got up in the morning, two or three slanting suns came into the cabin. The sun has feet, he moves gently and quietly, and I follow blankly. So-when you wash your hands, the day passes through the basin; when you eat, it passes through the rice bowl; in silence, it passes through your eyes. I sensed that he was in a hurry, and when I stretched out his hand to cover it, he passed it again, and when I was lying on the bed when it was dark, he stepped cleverly over me and flew away from my feet. When I opened my eyes and said goodbye to the sun, it was another day away. I hid my face and sighed. But the shadow of the new day began to flash in the sigh again.
In the days of flight, what can I do in the world of thousands of families? Only wandering, only in a hurry; in the more than 8,000 days of haste, apart from wandering, what is left? The old days are like smoke, dispersed by the breeze, like mist, evaporated by the morning sun; what traces do I leave? Have I ever left traces like a gossamer? I came into this world naked, and will I go back naked in the twinkling of an eye? But it can't be flat, why do you have to take this trip in vain?
You wise, tell me, why are our days gone forever?
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