Gone are swallows, but they may come back again; withered are willows, but they may turn green again; fading away are peach blossoms, but they may flower again. Now, you my sage would you please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return? Are they stolen by someone?  If so, who could it be, and where could they be hidden? If they run away by themselves, where are they now?
    I have no idea how many days I am granted, but I could feel that their weight in my hands becomes less and less. In contemplation, I count, there are more than eight thousand days having slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off the point of a needle down to the sea, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless and traceless. Aware of this, I feel sweats exuding from my forehead, and tears brimming in my eyes.
	What should be gone will be gone for ever, and what should come will keep coming for good. Between going and coming, there is a flight of time! When I get up in the morning, the sunshine the slanting sun sheds beams into my room, edging away gently and quietly,as if he is footed. Without awareness, I feel myself already echoing his revolution.Thus, when I wash my hands, the sink washes away the day. When I have a meal, the bowl vanishes the day. When I am in contemplation, my gazing eyes feel the day passing by. When I feel it in a rush, I try to hold it to only find it slipping away from my outstretched hands. When night falls and I lie on my bed, it swiftly strides over my body and flits past my feet. When I wake and see the sun again, another day rolls by already. Burying my face in my hands, I heave a sigh, and the new day begins thrilling through it.
    Amid the fleeting days, what could I do in the world of hustle and bustle, but roaming and sighing the flight of time? What have I done in the flight of eight thousand days, except roaming and roving? The bygone days like wisps of smoke, have been blown away by breezes and like clusters of thin mist, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What trace have I left behind me? Alas! Nothing! Nay, not even a gossamer-like trail! I have come to this world stark naked, and in a wink, shall I go back as stark naked as the beginning? However, I can’t get over it: why must I get through this journey of life for nothing?

    You, please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return?