The swallows may have gone, but they will return in time; the willows may have withered, but they will be green again; the peach blossoms may have faded, but they will bloom once more. But you, my wise friend, tell me why our days never return once they are gone? - Were they stolen by someone: if so, who was it and where are they hidden? Or did they escape on their own: if so, where are they now?
I don't know how many days I've been given, but I can feel my hands growing fuller with haste. Counting silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slipped through my fingers, like a drop of water falling from the tip of a needle into the sea. My days drip into the stream of time, soundlessly and without a trace. I cannot help but sweat and shed tears.
Gone are those that have passed, and here come those yet to arrive; but how fleeting is the moment between their coming and going? When I rise in the morning, slanting beams of sunlight enter my small room. The sun has feet, moving quietly and imperceptibly, and I follow its motion in a daze. Thus - when I wash my hands, the days pass through the basin; when I eat, they slip past the bowl; when I am lost in thought, they glide by my fixed gaze. Realizing how swiftly they go, I stretch out my hand to hold them back, but they slip past my fingers all the same. At night, as I lie in bed, they nimbly stride over me and fly past my feet. By the time I open my eyes to greet the sun anew, another day has slipped away. Covering my face, I sigh. Yet even in my sighs, the shadow of the new day flashes past.
In these fleeting, flying days, what can I do in this world of countless households? Wandering aimlessly, rushing about - in the span of more than eight thousand fleeting days, what remains besides my wandering? The days gone by are like wisps of smoke, scattered by the wind, or thin mists, evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? Have I left even the faintest mark? Naked I came into this world, and in the blink of an eye, shall I leave it just as bare? But I cannot accept it - why should I have lived this life for nothing?
You, my wise friend, tell me, why do our days never return once they are gone?