RushThe swallows leave for winter
but one day, they will fly back
The willow trees shed its leaves
but one day, they will sprout new leaves
The peach blossoms wither
but one day they will bloom again
So tell me
Why do our days go by and never come back?
Perhaps our days have been stolen.
They've hidden it, somewhere I cannot find.
How many days have they left with me?
Already, my hands feel empty and hollow.
I silently count the eight thousand days
That have slipped away from between my fingers.
Like a drop of water from a needle-tip
dropping into the vast ocean,
My days fall into the flow of time,
making no sound, leaving no trace.
I cannot help but grieve over this sadness.
What comes must come and what goes must go;
But in between coming and going, how does one rush?
I wake up in the morning, sunlight streaming into my room.
The beam has little feet, quietly tiptoeing across the floor;
The time passes by.
It drains down the sink as I wash my hands,
Empties slowly from my bowl of