Our life is made by the death of others.

I shall live here in the rains, there in winter, elsewhere in summer, muses the fool, not aware of the nearness of death.

Just as a line drawn on water with a stick will quickly vanish and will not last long; even so is human life like a line drawn on water. It is short, limited, and brief; it is full of suffering, full of tribulation. This one should wisely understand, one should do good and live a pure life; for none who is born can escape death.

Unindicated and unknown is the length of life of those subject to death.

Life is swept along, next-to-nothing its span. For one swept to old age no shelters exist. Perceiving this danger in death, one should drop the world's bait and look for peace.

Of bones the city is made, Plastered with flesh and blood, Where decay and death are deposited, And pride, and ingratitude.