The swallows have gone, but there will be a time for them to return; the willows have withered, but there will be a time for them to turn green again; the peach blossoms have faded, but there will be a time for them to bloom again. But you, my wise friend, tell me, why do our days never return once they are gone? - Were they stolen by someone: who was it and where are they hidden? Or did they escape on their own: where are they now?
I don't know how many days I've been given, but my hands certainly feel full of haste. Counting silently, more than eight thousand days have already slipped through my fingers, like a drop of water from the tip of a needle falling into the ocean. My days drip into the stream of time, soundlessly and tracelessly. I can't help but sweat and shed tears.
The past is gone, and the future is coming; in between, how fleeting it all is! In the morning when I get up, a few slanting beams of sunlight shine into my small room. The sun has feet, moving quietly and imperceptibly, and I follow along blindly. Thus—when I wash my hands, the days pass through the basin; when I eat, they pass through the rice bowl; when I am silent, they slip past my fixed gaze. When I realize how swiftly they are passing, I reach out to hold them back, but they slip past my obstructing hands. At night, when I lie down in bed, they nimbly cross over me and fly away from my feet. When I open my eyes to greet the sun again, another day has slipped away. Covering my face, I sigh, but the shadow of new days flashes past in my sighs.
In the fleeting days that flee like flying horses, what can I do in this world of thousands of doors and windows? Only wander aimlessly, only rush about. In the rush of more than eight thousand days, what remains besides wandering? The past days are like wisps of smoke, scattered by the wind, or thin mists, dissolved by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind? Have I ever left even the faintest trace? I came into this world naked, and in an instant, shall I leave just as naked? But I cannot accept this—why must I come and go in vain?
You, who are wise, tell me, why do our days never return once they are gone?