We waste our time in delusion,
dreaming of wealth, dreaming of ease;
and when at length we regain our senses,
all that has grown are the wildest flowers and trees.
The great wheel--time cannot be bound--
wheel cursed by our pockmark upon it,
thrashes our faces every time the wheel goes ‘round:
the fact resounds, dream what we will,
at self-destruction we would heatedly sit,
too late in our lives is the truth found.
