’Tis we that wail the hour of birth,
’Tis others weep the hour we die.
If I am sad, ’tis others sing;
Should they lament, I will be feasting.
All flows, all passes, like yon stream;
Like yonder wind-wheel all revolves.
We change the fire-drill, changing not the fire;
New lamps or old, what matters it?
’Tis laughable that all men flock in crowds
To worship Buddhas and the Genii;
Austerities mean cramp and weariness,
And genuflections to the Rites a headache.
’Tis but a tangle of marsh-lights after all,
We cannot seize the shadow of the wind.
What if the gods made answer to our prayers?
With shouts of laughter I should drive the crowd.