Living in this world -
to what shall I compare it?
Its like a boat
rowing out at break of day,
leaving no trace behind.

That man's life is but a dream -
is what we now come to know.

Its house abandoned,
the garden has become home
to butterflies.

The mountains in automn
there are so much fallen leaves,
- looking for my lost lover
I cannot find the path.

Its all I think of: of when I was young,
reading books in the empty temple hall -

refilling the lamp again and again with oil,

never lamenting the long winter night.