How do we know that the love of life

Is simply not a delusion?

How do we know that the dislike of death

Is not like a young man's losing his way,

Not knowing that he is really going home?

How do we know that the dead do not repent

Of their former craving for surviving?

Allow me to try and explain these things myself.

A younger daughter of my eastern neighbour,

When her rich but aged promised husband

First sought her in marriage, wept till the tears

Wetted all the front of her simple clothing.

But when she came to the place of her spouse

And shared with him his luxurious couch and ate

All those delicious victuals, then she regretted