The living are merely travelers,
The deceased are those who return home.
The Sky and Earth provide us with inns and playgrounds,
To our grief we will all become dust in the end.
The Moon Rabbit is making longevity medicine in vain ,
The Fuso tree has become firewood.
Bones of the dead are lonely and reticent,
Could evergreen pines feel the coming of spring?
Thinking of the past and the future I sigh,
Are the worldly vanities worth anything?
