O you who secretly shed tears,
You who waste your precious pearls —
The death of a few dreams
Does not mean life has died.

What is a dream, but water
Asleep upon the bed of eyes,
Its breaking is like
A young heart waking from tender sleep.
You who long for youth without its trials,
You who try to bathe without getting wet —
The flowing of some water
Does not mean the monsoon has died.

So what if a garland has fallen apart?
The problem has solved itself.
If your tears have finally been auctioned,
Consider your penance complete.
You who try to celebrate sorrow,
You who mend torn clothes —
The extinguishing of a few lamps
Does not mean the courtyard has died.

Nothing is ever truly lost here;
Only the book’s cover changes.
Like night removes her silver robe,
And morning wears a golden one.
You who come in changed clothes,
You who leave in new disguises —
Losing a few toys
Does not mean childhood has died.

A hundred thousand pots may break,
Yet the well remains unchanged.
Countless boats may sink,
Still the shore remains alive.
You who wish to extend darkness,
You who wish to shorten the flame —
No matter how hard autumn tries,
The garden never dies.