All our life long
each autumn, keeping us company,
becomes last autumn and passes.
Even suppose we could change our bodies
into that body,
what would become of us in the blue sky's warp and weft?
Why, the deciduous trees are busy together
amidst the evergreen trees,
here and there dyeing each other's leaves.
Yet all our life long
we can never become children that run when called;
there are no lonely fathers either.
Though you say " last autumn, "
autumn is no stranger.
But as you call aloud once more,
autumn becomes last autumn.