Contemplating the Phantasmal

All beings rise out of extinction,
nonbeing their point of departure, after that no more sameness.
From delight we move at last to sorrow,
through mounting afflictions, to end in nothingness.
Little by little eyes grow dimmer;
so brief the time, candles in a passing wind.
And then there's nowhere you can look for us,
bird tracks left behind in the empty sky.
Author of original: 
Po Chü-i
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