Time Rushing By
By Zhu Zhi Qing
A swallow passes by, when it comes around again, the willow and peach blossoms wither away, soon another season goes by. Tell me, smart one, why does our days pass by so quickly with no return? Did someone steal it? Who? Where did they hide it? Or did it simply run run away; Where is it now?
I can’t count out the days they’ve given me; but my hands are clearly empty. Counting quietly to myself, about eight thousand days have slip right through my hands. The impact I’ve made is as much as a drop of water from the tip of a needle into the wide sea can make, with no sound, no shadows. I can not help but sit there solemnly sigh and cry.
Time comes and goes; while the time is here, why does it pass by so quickly? I see a few thin rays of sun shine in my little home in the morning when I wake up. It seems like the sun has feet, as if it is quietly shifting by itself; and along with it, I absently follow its movement. Another example, as I wash my hands, the time passes by when the water rinses down the drain. When I eat, the time passes by as I empty my bowl of food. Silently when I'm gazing fixedly into nothing, time passes by once again. I noticed time comes by quickly, so I try to hold onto it, however it still escapes through my covered hands. As I lay in bed when the night comes, the time simply crosses my body again flying past my feet. When I open my eyes the next time, it will be another day passing by. I hid my face sighing, but the shadow of a new day flashes by once again while I'm still moaning.
In days of time flying by so quickly, among the thousands of households in my community, what have I done? All I do is sit there pacing up and down, not knowing what else I can do, what else is there left to do but hesitate? The time passes by like thin smoke in the air, blowing through the wind like fog, only to be melted when the sun comes up. What kind of mark have I made? Have I even barely made a simple trace like a string of web? I’ve came into this world with nothing, in a flash of a eye, will I leave with nothing too? That would have no meaning, why should life have no purpose like this?
Tell me, smart one, whey does our days go by with no turning back?
By Zhu Zhi Qing
A swallow passes by, when it comes around again, the willow and peach blossoms wither away, soon another season goes by. Tell me, smart one, why does our days pass by so quickly with no return? Did someone steal it? Who? Where did they hide it? Or did it simply run run away; Where is it now?
I can’t count out the days they’ve given me; but my hands are clearly empty. Counting quietly to myself, about eight thousand days have slip right through my hands. The impact I’ve made is as much as a drop of water from the tip of a needle into the wide sea can make, with no sound, no shadows. I can not help but sit there solemnly sigh and cry.
Time comes and goes; while the time is here, why does it pass by so quickly? I see a few thin rays of sun shine in my little home in the morning when I wake up. It seems like the sun has feet, as if it is quietly shifting by itself; and along with it, I absently follow its movement. Another example, as I wash my hands, the time passes by when the water rinses down the drain. When I eat, the time passes by as I empty my bowl of food. Silently when I'm gazing fixedly into nothing, time passes by once again. I noticed time comes by quickly, so I try to hold onto it, however it still escapes through my covered hands. As I lay in bed when the night comes, the time simply crosses my body again flying past my feet. When I open my eyes the next time, it will be another day passing by. I hid my face sighing, but the shadow of a new day flashes by once again while I'm still moaning.
In days of time flying by so quickly, among the thousands of households in my community, what have I done? All I do is sit there pacing up and down, not knowing what else I can do, what else is there left to do but hesitate? The time passes by like thin smoke in the air, blowing through the wind like fog, only to be melted when the sun comes up. What kind of mark have I made? Have I even barely made a simple trace like a string of web? I’ve came into this world with nothing, in a flash of a eye, will I leave with nothing too? That would have no meaning, why should life have no purpose like this?
Tell me, smart one, whey does our days go by with no turning back?