Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return;
willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening;
peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again.
Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?
If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be?
Where could he hide them?
If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?
I dont know how many days I have been given to spend,
but I do feel my hands are getting empty.
Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me.
Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean,
my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless.
Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.
Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming;
yet in between, how fast is the shift, in such a rush?
When I get up in the morning,
the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs.
The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively;
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