Chinese Prose "In a Hurry"

Below is one of my favorite Chinese prose’s "In a Hurry", written by Zhu Ziqing in 1922. One Chinese man, two generations before me, had the exact same anxiety about time passing as I have now, and expressed his feeling of helplessness about time passing as precisely as I have been feeling all along. I used to be able to recite the full contexts but now I am only able to recite the first paragraph. I'm now attempting to translate the prose into English. I've done a lot of translations in my old days in China, mostly technical, and many of them have been in prints/publications. I'll be embarrassed if I see some of my old translations now. Who knows. This translation below might bring me the same embarrassment many years from now when I read it. Translations have their limits. It's inevitable to have the essence of the literatures "Lost in Translation". So I'm posting both the prose in original Chinese and my translated English here.

                                                     匆匆

燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们吧：那是谁？又藏在何处呢？是他们自己逃走了吧：现在又到了哪里呢？

我不知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁汗涔涔而泪潸潸了。

去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去，天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。

在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了；我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸的回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？

你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？

                                                       In A Hurry

Swallows gone but time to be back. Willows dry but time to re-green; Plum flowers dead  but time to re-bloom. The genius, please tell me why our days gone but never to return - Could they be stolen by someone? Who is that someone then and where is he hiding them? If they themselves have escaped, where are they now?

I do not know how many days they gave me but my hands seem gradually empty. Counting the days silently, over 8000 slipped away from my hands; Like a needle tip, a drop of water falls into the vast ocean, my days drop in the flow of time, leaving no sound, nor shadow. I could not help but sweating and tearing up.

Though let bygones be bygones and forth comings come forth, what a hurry is it between the comings and goings? In the mornings I get up, my little room is lightened by the slanting sun. The sun ah the sun he has feet too, gently and quietly divertes away. I also follow his movement, rotating blindly. So - When washing my hands, days are washed away from the basin; When eating, they are eaten away from the rice bowl; When gazing in silence, they are gazed away right in front of my gazing eyes. I notice his passing in a hurry. I reach out my hands to slow him down but he runs away from my fingertips again. In darkness when I lie in bed, he crosses over my body and flows through my foot tips effortlessly. Opening my eyes to see the sun off entails that another day has just gone. I cover my face and sigh but a new day casts away in the sighing.

In the days fleeting like flight, and in the world of million thresholds, what can I do? Only wanderings and wanderings only. In the hastily fled days of 8000 and more, besides wandering outside, what's left for me to do? The past days are as smokes, blown thin by the breeze, and as mist, melted into vapor by the early sun. What traces did I retain? Have I ever retained a trace as slight as a moving silk worm's mark? I came to this world naked, and in the blink of an eye I will be gone naked? But this is not fair. Why are we born to walk this circle in vain?

You genius, tell me why our days are once gone, never to be returned?