Gazing into the distance at mulberry fields, it's as if a millennium ago, the misty smoke rises again. The floating driftwood of this shore, like traffic accident mediation agreements, rots in the heart. For every smile, there are tears to match.
Wandering with cinnabar, washing water reeds, observing those paintings and calligraphy, talking about the horizon in the fog.
From after the flowers bloom to before they wither, what sadness does her beauty evoke? Retaining the last morning curtain.
You once waited for the southern geese in the alley of fireworks, stepping on parting sorrows to go towards places full of spring splendor. And your hair turned white, leaving only nostalgia and memories.
Perhaps outside the window, the rain is still blurred with tears, flowers falling in disarray. Who can listen carefully to its sorrow, its helplessness? Separated by the distance of passersby in this world, our intertwined fingers are pulled apart, hearts confused. Filtering through the mottled shadows, the pale fingertips cannot feel the warmth of the sun.
Searching through a thousand mountains in the evening snow, yet finding that good times are like dreams.
The old road west of the river, lonely travelers returning, looking at iron horses in the autumn wind, tears falling like rain.
In the bustling sea of people, which beam of sunlight passes through the mottled years to fall into my heart? The March breeze, as if gently brushing the branches in a dream, spreading out beyond the windowsill. Only the tranquility breaks under the reflection of fleeting light, gently following the whisper of the warm wind.
How many bends has the moon over Lu Prefecture drawn? How many times have the flowers withered at night? In an instant, twilight turns into crimson smoke. Whose lips curl into a smile, whose eyes blur with tears? A thought drops into a dream, another brings the wind to an end.
Flowers bloom and leaves fall, yet the cold moon illuminates a lonely night; broken bridges and remaining snow, all just a smile when looking back.
Perhaps it's a dream. When I wake up, the tumultuous waves of ten thousand years ago are forever silent in the river of history. The women of those days are embedded in black-and-white paintings, not even having time for their tears to fall. Who gave me this sense of loss? Your appearance seems to be right in front of me, but it shatters like the moon reflected in water.
You once searched for buds in the deep rains at the city gate. They have already bloomed into a tree full of fragrance, yet your tears haven't ended, still mourning alone.
Smoke rises everywhere, winds surge and flowers float. Gazing at that season of blue skies, it's as if time begins to dock. A solitary boat carries fragmented moments, drifting downstream, breaking apart in the wind.
From after intoxication to before waking from a dream, what falls onto your heart, piercing the red at your chest?
Imagining that incomparably colorful face in the mortal world, how many years of red walls and white makeup have been toppled. Amber tears of disappointment cannot penetrate the stability of history, instead falling onto your hair.
From after the beginning to before the end, what plays out as one person's monologue behind a mask?
In the pavilion of the emperor, cinnabar tears flow, leaving behind scenes of war and chaos, tiger roars and wolf cries. That single tear falls eternally, winding through the aged brushstrokes of history, yellowed ink.
What makes us cry or laugh, what makes us obsessed? Just strangers passing by, smiling briefly before quickly departing.
Suddenly, treading on fragrant cold snow, scattering the clouds of the mundane world, rouge eyebrow makeup, during the time of national ruin, for whom does it display its allure? A single stroke of the wolf-hair brush, and a thousand years of silence vanish.
Time solidifies in the ancient desert, carved railings and jade steps become countless white-haired expanses. In an instant, enemies approach the city, golden spears and iron horses make even the smoke of war pale in comparison.
Elegance, is the elegance of boundless sorrow that cannot be fully expressed, bending in the traces of time, turning instantly into eternal sorrow in the chest.
What holds you back, what do you gaze at? The vast distance of the horizon is the beginning and end of everything, transforming into my soul, my blood, and then attaching despair.