Rush--- By 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 willbloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me , why shouldour days leave us, never to return? If they hadbeen 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 don't know how many days I have been given tospend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Takingstock silently, I  find that more than eight thousand dayshave 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, tracelesss.Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling upin 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 marksits 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     though 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 hand. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment  I openmy 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 Iever 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 Ihave made such a trip for nothing?

You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?