In this world where we forget, we are shadows of who we are, and the real actions we perform in the other world, where we live as souls, are here wry grins and appearances...

Between my sleeping and dreaming,
Between me and the one in me
Who I suppose I am,
A river flows without end.

In this meandering journeys,
Such as all rivers make,
It passed by other, different
Shores in far-off places.

It arrived at where I now live,
At the house that I am today.
If I dwell on myself, it passes;
If I wake up, it already went by.

And the one I feel I am, who dies
In what links me to myself,
Sleeps where the river flows---
That river without end...