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Rush
����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 will bloom again. Now�� you the wise�� tell me�� why should our days leave us�� never to return�� - If they had been 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��
��������ȥ�ˣ���������ʱ���������ˣ��������ʱ���һ�л�ˣ����ٿ���ʱ�򡣵��ǣ������ģ�������ң����ǵ�����Ϊʲôһȥ�������أ�——������͵�����ǰգ�����˭���ֲ��ںδ��أ��������Լ������ˣ������ֵ��������أ�
����I don't know how many 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 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�� traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead�� and tears welling up in my eyes.
�����Ҳ�֪�����Ǹ����Ҷ������ӣ����ҵ���ȷ���ǽ��������ˡ���ĬĬ�����ţ���ǧ�������Ѿ�����������ȥ���������һ��ˮ���ڴ���ҵ����ӵ���ʱ������û������Ҳû��Ӱ�ӡ��Ҳ���ͷ�乶��������ˡ�
����Those that have gone have gone for good�� those to come keep coming�� yet in between�� how swift is the shift�� in such a rush�� When I get up in the morning�� the slanting sun marks 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�� in his revolution. Thus——the day flows away through 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 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 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.
����ȥ�ľ���ȥ�ˣ����ľ������ţ�ȥ�����м䣬�������ĴҴ��أ�������������ʱ��С�������������бб��̫���̫�����нŰ����������ĵ�Ų���ˣ���ҲããȻ������ת������——ϴ�ֵ�ʱ�����Ӵ�ˮ�����ȥ���Է���ʱ�����Ӵӷ������ȥ��ĬĬʱ�������Ȼ��˫��ǰ��ȥ���Ҿ�����ȥ�ĴҴ��ˣ����������ʱ�����ִ������ŵ��ֱ߹�ȥ�����ʱ�������ڴ��ϣ��������������ش�����߿�������ҽű߷�ȥ�ˡ����������ۺ�̫���ټ���������������һ�ա���������̾Ϣ���������������ӵ�Ӱ���ֿ�ʼ��̾Ϣ�������ˡ�
����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 I ever 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 I have made such a trip for nothing��
��������ȥ��ɵ��������ǧ���򻧵��������������Щʲô�أ�ֻ���ǻ����ˣ�ֻ�дҴҰ��ˣ��ڰ�ǧ���յĴҴ�����ǻ��⣬��ʣЩʲô�أ���ȥ������������ȴ��΢�紵ɢ�ˣ��籡��������������ˣ�������Щʲô�ۼ��أ��Һ�����������˿���ĺۼ��أ��ҳ��������������磬ת�ۼ�Ҳ��������ػ�ȥ�գ�������ƽ�ģ�ΪʲôƫҪ�װ�����һ�Ⱑ��
����You the wise�� tell me�� why should our days leave us�� never to return��
����������ģ������ң����ǵ�����Ϊʲôһȥ�������أ�

 

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