When you grow so rich, you get many friends,
When you become famous, you make many friends. When sickness comes, you lose those friends,
And when poverty comes, you lose those friends. You are passing away; they are going away,
You are suffering much; they are sneaking much. Everything you are will pass away,
Only what you do for God will remain. What sort of life do you have if your friends
can only be counted on in good times?
Misty absence without time
the night of gloom is sailing
Ash and sea are mingled.