Rush
Zhu Zhiqing

Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return;willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peachblossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tellme, why should our days leave us, never to return? — If they had been stolen bysomeone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escapethemselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

I do not know howmany 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 alreadyslid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearinginto 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 myeyes.

Those that havegone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swiftis the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sunmarks 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, inhis revolution. Thus — the day flows away through the sink when I wash myhands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before myday-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reachout 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 wholeday has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new daybegins to flash past in the sigh. Whatcan I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothingbut to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-dayrush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke bya light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I leftbehind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come tothe world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the samestark-nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip fornothing!

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