Transient Days

If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn
green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why
should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But
who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by
themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?

I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of then is
undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8000 days have
already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point
into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace.
At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.
What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in
between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish
patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and
stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have
my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie.
Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my
outstretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body
and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day
is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs,
a new day is flashing past.

Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but
waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8000
fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have
been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising
sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have
come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark
naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass
through this world for nothing at all?

O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?