How short, short this bright sun—
our hundred years fill so easily with sorrow.
The vaulted blue-green sky floods on and on,
for ten-thousand eons reality flows on.
The goddess lets down two locks of hair,
already half frost-white.
The Lord of Heaven plays at darts with her
and laughs through a million thousand spaces.
I want to rein in the sun’s six dragons,
turn round their chariot, and tether them at world’s end.
The Northern Dipper pours fine wine—
I’ll persuade each dragon to drink a goblet.
Wealth and honor aren’t what we want
to halt the ruination of our brightness.