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Swallows have gone, and there is a time to come again; The willows are dead, when they are green again, the peach blossoms are dead, and when they bloom again. But, smart, tell me, why are our days gone forever? Someone stole them: who is that? Where is it hidden? They escaped by themselves: where are they now?

I don't know how many days they gave me; But my hands are getting empty. Counting silently, more than 8 thousand days slipped away from me quietly; Like a drop of water on the tip of a needle in the sea, my days are dripping in the stream of time, without sound or shadow. I can't help bursting into tears.

Go wherever you go, and come wherever you come; What's the hurry between going and coming? When I get up in the morning, two or three sunsets shoot into the hut. Sun, he has feet! Gently and quietly moved; I also follow the rotation blankly. So-when washing your hands, the days pass from the basin; When eating, the days pass from the rice bowl; When I was silent, I passed by my eyes. I think he is in a hurry. When I reached out to cover my arm, he passed by the covered hand again. When I was lying in bed at dark, he passed me and flew away from my feet. When I open my eyes and see the sun again, it will be a new day. I covered my face and sighed. But the shadow of the new day began to flash with a sigh.

What can I do in the days when I fly away, in the world of thousands of families? Only wandering, only running; In the rush of more than 8,000 days, what is left except wandering? The past days, like smoke, were scattered by the breeze, like fog, evaporated by Chu Yang; What traces did I leave? Did I leave traces like hairspring? I came into this world naked, and I will go back naked in the blink of an eye? But it can't be flat. Why did you come for nothing this time?

Mr. Zhu Ziqing's "Hurry", I wonder if it's ok?