Look at the wind and moon, how many chaos have been added in a hundred years, causing more reunions and separations in the world. Until now, after writing on the paper of fleeting years, looking back, it has forever become a memory. Turning around, there is a thousand miles of misty light on the road, but when will we meet again in another life? How many plum blossom notes have been written in books? In white clothes, dancing slightly, facing the initial string of the moon, making Zen scrolls and Buddhist tunes, separating our dusty paths.
I am the woman who comes from the depths of your nightmares in the previous life, dressed in white, crying softly by the Qinhuai River every night; I am the woman who was parasitic on the loop road waiting for you in the previous life, resting on the green clouds alone, playing strings and plucking tunes with sorrowful heart.
I am the woman who comes from your previous life, traveling through mountains and rivers, just to find the lost love of that life. Let time pass back three hundred years, describing the poems of four seasons, and asking you to return me the dream of willow breeze.
Revisiting old dreams, tears have formed words for three hundred years. I live in those words, in the ink-painted Jiangnan, dancing by the railing under the new moon of the building, singing all the wind under the peach blossom fan...
I am the woman who comes from your previous life, can you remember my appearance once? I am the woman who comes from your previous life, always chasing on the road of your reincarnation. Under the pear blossom moon, under the plum blossom snow, who understands my heart like water and cloud? Writing all the mandarin ducks, but only guarding the cold bed and lamp shadow until tears turn into ice.
Pouring out the hidden hatred, all given to the strings on the fingers. Why ask about the worldly fate beyond this life? How can it compare to the debt of a hundred years? Whose poem is on the peach blossom fan? And who, has lost his woman from the previous life?
Who taught the three thousand blossoms to bloom, hurting the feelings of one world. Two thousand Buddhist chants, a volume of poetic Zen; cannot extinguish that Jiangnan. How can that love story be forgotten afterwards? But it makes people shed tears on the flower note. The old alliance of life and death is still in sight, tears wetting the silk sleeves, afraid to touch the fleeting years. When those love stories float over the eyes, they only leave faint traces of old stories, asking who forgets first? A thousand tears, only chasing the empty memories of three lives alone.