Entangled in the Years

Time leaves its mark upon the fleeting years, and the fleeting years leave their touch upon youthful faces. The passage of days is relentless; once the prime of life has gone, it never returns. Under the vast sky, a slanting ray of the setting sun casts a lonely, chill light, mingled with quiet sorrow and a sense of melancholy. After all the splendor has faded, what remains is an inescapable coldness. In every life, countless passersby appear and vanish, countless scenes are glimpsed in passing, countless paths are crossed, and yet it is always those who were dearest yesterday who become the most distant strangers today. If life were without joy and sorrow, separation and reunion, could we not let the gentle flow of time carry us serenely into old age? If we did not suffer the waste and ruin of our best years, could we then dwell with calm acceptance amidst the dust and clamor of the world? Once, who was it that betrayed a cherished bond, who buried their love in the mortal world, who let the fleeting years slip by? Someday, when we vanish into the dust, whose peach blossoms, whose smoke from home fires, whose ancient stupa will lie buried in memory? Parting brings pain that cuts to the core; love, when it runs deep, cannot be restrained. The past remains vivid before our eyes. Yet at the time, it all seemed so ordinary.