The Tables Spill
When the field's harvests abound,
Our gates, a sea of faces throng.
And when the tables spill,
Deserted our gates become.
The world's a room of merriment and squalor,
Its lot, we pick by destiny.
Or sweat and toil may make us become.
But when nature chooses its lot for us,
Who of all man can question it?
Those of golden cradle born,
O' they of bamboo bed mocked,
Time may overturn the thread.
The bamboo like phoenix turns gold,
And the golden cradle in the thatch found.
The wrinkled face shrinks to the world of a hermit,
But to the fairy damsel the world smiles.
Oh life's but time and chance!
Man is himself a god and demon!
The music blare of the castle we may envy,
Sooner a time the music dies.
Who can remember all men of fame?
Some in the dustbin of life end.
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