Among the peach red willow green, where is my youth?
The wind dances and swirls, where is the yearning from a thousand years ago?
Time is like a song, where are the fragmented pieces in the wind?
Where can the fragile soul find comfort?
The wind sweeps across the plains, the twilight descends in the west. I pick up my travel bag and wander to the ends of the earth. Where can I find your silhouette?
So lush it's almost makes one forget oneself.
The slanted spring breeze has disheveled my hair,
What delicate hands hold is not poetry as red as blood, but rather the yearning you left behind at a dusk a thousand years ago.
You from the past, me now, we walk on a strange path. The scenery by the road remains unchanged, but none of us recognize each other.
Hands once held have cycled through a thousand years in the swaying gentle breeze. I don't know where they should be extended?
The traces of time fade slowly like a twilight, like an old yellowed photograph, recording your promise to me. In the spring breeze, it has long since faded away. Yesterday's twilight quietly slipped away, just like sand imagined tightly clutched in hand, yet slips faster the tighter it's gripped. I am like a prospector by the sea, painstakingly searching for eternal gold in this life. Year after year, the spring breeze turns the southern bank of the Yangtze River green again. Year after year, willow catkins dance. The gold I have found fades like that twilight a thousand years ago, quickly slipping away before I could even feel its warmth in my hand. Enough, enough.
Under the poetic and picturesque twilight, a few strands of spring breeze bring the distant yearning. Helplessly, I pace alone on the fragrant path in the small garden, listening to the sound of the stone slabs clicking. You are not the returning person, but just a passerby. The lingering fragrance you left is just a beautiful mistake. Slowly, slowly, I raise my head as if frozen in place, looking at the twilight resembling an old yellowed photograph. Nothing compares to the beauty of dawn and dusk. Looking far into the distance, everything has turned yellow. A few strands of clear wind sway, letting the yearning sway with them, slowly extending towards the deep end of the fragrant path, reaching back to that twilight a thousand years ago. I have also become a fragment on that old photograph. Everything has slipped away like yesterday's twilight.
Watching the willows sway in the wind, flying all over the sky, the young me tastes the sorrow of the river flowing eastward alone. Where is the twilight from a thousand years ago? And where are you?
After the slanting spring rain passes, the scenery on both sides is so green it seems about to fall off. It sways in the wind, flaunting its beauty to passers-by. That bewitching beauty dances in the wind, like a newly taken photograph. But in this new photograph, there is no you or me from the past. In this new photograph, thoughts run wild, everything extends into the past. I am like someone searching for the scent of the past in the spring breeze, but everything has been carried away by the spring breeze, staying a thousand years ago. Yet I still search in the gentle spring rain a thousand years later. Even after a thousand years, I am still me, turning the new photograph into a remembered landscape. After a thousand years, where are you? Leaving the young me cycling through life in this mortal world, yet it quickly slips away before I can even feel its warmth in my hand. Enough, enough.
Under the poetic and picturesque twilight, a few strands of spring breeze bring the distant yearning. Helplessly, I pace alone on the fragrant path in the small garden, listening to the sound of the stone slabs clicking. You are not the returning person, but just a passerby. The lingering fragrance you left is just a beautiful mistake. Slowly, slowly, I raise my head as if frozen in place, looking at the twilight resembling an old yellowed photograph. Nothing compares to the beauty of dawn and dusk. Looking far into the distance, everything has turned yellow. A few strands of clear wind sway, letting the yearning sway with them, slowly extending towards the deep end of the fragrant path, reaching back to that twilight a thousand years ago. I have also become a fragment on that old photograph. Everything has slipped away like yesterday's twilight.
Watching the willows sway in the wind, flying all over the sky, the young me tastes the sorrow of the river flowing eastward alone. Where is the twilight from a thousand years ago? And where are you?