I once also thought about riding a horse, brandishing a sword, and roaming the world beyond the horizon. But halfway through, I met someone who said he would grant me a lifelong promise. Overcome by excitement, I turned—(I took up the sword and) sold the horse. From then on, I devoted myself completely to the everyday joys of life: firewood, rice, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and tea.

But when I looked back, I realized the person was gone.

So I again wanted to buy back the sword, get my horse back, and make the trip once more to that world beyond the horizon that I hadn’t finished reaching back then—only to find that the sword had already rusted, the horse had already grown old. Worst of all, I couldn’t lift the sword anymore, and I couldn’t mount the horse either.

Only then did I understand: flowers have days when they bloom again, but a person has no way to be young a second time. I’m no longer that boy from the first time we met—aiming a full bow, unafraid of time, unafraid of the wind. Now the east wind has blown apart my young resolve; from then on, there is no longer a pure heart. You could say it’s been half a lifetime of wind and rain and half a lifetime of cold; half a lifetime drifting and half a lifetime in hardship; half a lifetime remembering in poetry and half a lifetime regretting—half my life is already gone, and there is no youth left!