Reflections on Life's Transience
Spring silkworms turn to autumn moths— the years flow on with no reprieve. Human life is not stone or metal; how fleeting are our youthful days. Chasing fame becomes our cage; in quiet thoughts, the heart grows dark. We waste our strength in youth, then age arrives with empty hands. One long sigh—that is all— yet still we hope tomorrow might redeem today. A gnarled old cypress stands, roots driven deep in mountain stone. Frost and dew press on relentlessly, it lies coiled like a sleeping dragon in the ravine. Could it not become a beam for palaces grand? Yet alas, no master craftsman comes. I have lingered here and grieved, watching branches weep in sorrow's wind. Let us speak of this no more— this ancient ache remains the same in every age.