Hurriedly, the swallows have gone, yet there will be a time when they return; the willows have withered, yet they will turn green again; the peach blossoms have fallen, yet they will bloom again. But, my wise one, tell me, why do our days once gone never come back? — Is it that someone has stolen them: who could it be? And where are they hidden? Or did they escape on their own: where are they now?
I do not know how many days they have given me; but my hands are indeed gradually growing empty. Silently counting, more than eight thousand days have slipped from my hands; like a drop of water on the tip of a needle falling into the vast ocean, my days drip into the stream of time, without sound, without shadow. I cannot help my head drooping and tears streaming down.
What has gone, has gone; what is coming, will come; between leaving and coming, how hurried it all seems! When I rise in the morning, slants of sunlight enter the little room. The sun has feet, moving lightly and silently; I am dazedly turning with it. Thus—when washing my hands, the days pass from the basin; when eating, the days pass from the bowl; in quiet moments, they pass silently before my steady eyes. I realize how hurriedly they go; when I reach out to hold them, they pass right through my grasp. At night, when I lie in bed, they nimbly leap from me and fly past my feet. By the time I open my eyes to see the sun again, another day has quietly slipped away. I cover my face and sigh. Yet the shadows of the new days begin to flicker through my sighs.
In the days fleeing like a thief, in the world of thousands of doors and households, what can I do? Only wander, only hurry; during the hurried course of over eight thousand days, apart from wandering, what else remains? The past days are like light smoke, blown away by a gentle breeze; like thin mist, evaporated by the morning sun; what traces do I leave behind? When have I ever left traces like a drifting thread? I came to this world naked, and in a blink of an eye, will I leave it naked as well? But why, when it cannot be settled, must I go through this empty journey?
You, my wise one, tell me, why do our days once gone never come back?
Zhu Ziqing's 'Spring'
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…...Speaking of which, it's different from what I memorized… Mine is 'hoping, hoping, the east wind comes…'
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