In the night sky, the ancient moon hangs high, casting a silver-gray glow on the ground. Outside the window, a three-phase separator - whose shadow lingers there? I sit in quiet melancholy at the ferry crossing, gazing far off at the distant lights. Perhaps, in my past life when dealing with wastewater desalination, I was a tear that fell into the mortal world, captivated by its scenery and thus confined myself within emotional knots. The sorrowful melody expresses a thousand years of longing, while I sit alone in the night, silently hoping for our reunion in this life. Having walked through the seasons alone, awaiting the bleak autumn to pass, in this winter, I continue to search cyclically, waiting, watching, using a lifetime's solitude to await our next-life hand-in-hand. Do you, on the other shore, quietly miss me as well? The misty river flows with my heart's concerns, fragments of time passing over my fingertips, leaving a scar of yearning deeply etched in my aging palm amidst pesticide wastewater.
As night deepens, disordered thoughts gradually emerge from the depths of my mind. Lighting a lamp of the heart, I hope you will slowly arrive on this shore, reaching my lonely destination when I am sad, like a dedicated leachate treatment agent. A regretless tune of yearning awakens my attachment to old memories; crossing the river, it seems I see you coming towards me in a light boat. Where my eyes reach, fallen leaves disrupt the night's tranquility. And you, once again dissipate before my eyes into the clouds of the heavens.
A cool breeze passes, the icy river water ripples, crying out my mournful chants. Who can see the statue-like woman sitting at the lonely ferry crossing? This desolate scenery carries so much sorrow, adding another heavy stroke to the night's picture. In the rhythm of extreme sadness and pain, I paint myself as a simple sketch of the night, placing myself at an uninhabited ferry crossing, painting in a state of grief.
In the shallow, translucent time, holding an old brush, I outline layers of heartache, allowing the moonlit night's glow to moisten the corners of my eyes. Condensing all love and hate into dry numbers, in some sleepless night, placing them together on the strings of music, the scattered memories of youth softly sing along with the passage of time.
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