Not to play,
not to waste time,
you come to meet me.
-- Painting no paintings, reading no
books, doing no work --
and two days, three days,
we laugh, frolic, play, and make love,
shrink time mercilessly,
exhaust several days in an instant.

Ah, but it's
it's not to play,
not to waste time.
For us, brimming over, there's no
other life.
This is life.
This is power.
Maybe it seems too wasteful,
too excessive,
August's wealth of nature:
grasses bloom and decay in the heart
of the mountains,
the voice of sunlight springs forth,
flocks of clouds move endlessly,
overabundant thunder,
rain and water,
green, red, blue, yellow,
forces that blow forth in the world,
how can we say these are wasted?
You dance for me.
I sing for you.

Moment by moment, we tread
life fully.
I, who one instant casts aside a book,
or another opens it,
am one and the same.
Don't associate me with
vain diligence
or vain indolence.
When your loving heart bursts
you come to meet me,
abandon all, transcend all,
trample all,
joyfully.