Rush - hasty
Zhu Zhiqing Zhu Ziqing
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 IT BE? Where Could He Hide THEM? IFED HE HIDE THEY IFED HE HIDE THEY THEY HADE Escape the at the moment?
The swallow is going, there is another time; will willow, there is a greenness; peach blossom, there is another time. However, smart, you tell me, why is our day? - Someone stole them: Who is that? Where is it? It is their own escape: Where is it now?
I do not 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 Day, Soundless, Traceles. Already SWEAT IS Starting on My Forehead, and Tears Welling Up in My Eyes.
I don't know how many days they gave me; but my hand is getting more emptiness. In silently calculating, more than 8,000 days have sneaked from me; a drop of water on the tip of the water is in the sea, my day is dropped in the time of time, there is no sound without the sound. I can't help but tears.
Those That To Come Keep Coming; Yet in Between, HOW SWIFT IS The Shift, In Such a Rush? When I Get Up in Two MY Small Room in Tw . or three oblongs The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution Thus - the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in. the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. in THE EVENING, AS I LIE IN BED, HE STRIDES over My FEET, IN HIS AGILE WAY. The Moment I Open My Eyes and Meet The Sun Again, One Whole Day Has Gone. i Bury My Face In My Hands And Heave A Sigh. But The New Day Begins To Flash Past In The Sigh. Despite it, despite the middle, what kind of hurry? When I got up in the morning, the hut was shocked in the two-way oblique sun. The sun he has a feet, and it is slightly moved quietly; I also followed the rotation. So - washing hands, the days from the basin; when eating, the days passed from the rice bowl; silently passed the front of the eyes. I was in a hurry, when I reached out, he passed from the hand, and when I was dark, I was lying in bed, he became the side of me, flying from my foot went. When I opened my eyes and the sun, I slip away again. I hide the sigh. But the shadows of the new days have begun to flash in the sigh.
What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed AS smoke by a light, or evaporated as miss by the Morning Sun. What traces have been ip BEHIND ME? HAVE I EVER LEFT BEHIND ANY GOSSAMER TRACES AT All? I have come to the world, stark naked; am i to go back , In a blink, in the Same Stark Nakedness? It is not fair thing: why shouthing! What can I do in the world of thousands of homes in the world? ? Only, only hurried; in a hurry in more than 8,000 days, what is left, what is left? In the past, as the light smoke was blown by the breeze, such as the mist, was steamed by the junior yang; what traces I left? Why did I stay like a trace? I am naked to this world, and I will return naked to my eyes. But it is not flat, why do you want to go through this?
You the Wise, Tell ME, Why Should Our Days Leave US, Never To Return? You are smart, tell me, why is our day not return?
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