The living are but passers-by,
And those are going home who die.
The sky and earth are hotels just
For all to grieve over age-old dust.
The Moon Goddess lives long in vain;
The sacred tree’s cut down with pain.
The bleached bones can nor speak nor sing.
Could green pines feel the warmth of spring?
Ancestors and posterity,
Don’t prize but sigh for vanity!