At the end of the day you feel yourself like a heavily drunk;
Fleeting time—never for an instant does it rest.
Buried, you will lie beneath daisy heavy sod,
From where each daybreak looks so gloomy and darkish. . .
Upon your flesh and bones are finally scattered,
All your heavenly souls and earthly spirits will vanish away.
If in next life your nose will not be blocked
With an iron ring of an obstinate ox,
It's not because of your unremitting reading
The Scriptures and other tons of Classics.
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Ron