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;

　　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 body, glides past 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.

　　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 wind,

　　or evaporated as mist by the morning sun.

　　What traces have I left 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 though:

　　why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

　　You the wise, tell me,

　　why should our days leave us, never to return?

　　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;

　　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 body, glides past 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.

　　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 wind,

　　or evaporated as mist by the morning sun.

　　What traces have I left 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 though:

　　why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

　　You the wise, tell me,

　　why should our days leave us, never to return?