The bustling fades, time turns yellow, and once frozen memories
are stranded. Years have made the flowers lonely, maple leaves have painted the
world red, and hurried passersby carry different fates. At the crossroads, who
is enacting the joys and sorrows, tears of parting, and unfathomable sorrow?
Perhaps in everyone's heart, there lies an "if."
Black and white piano keys play the resplendence of youth. Nostalgic pasts begin
to yellow, as if crushing the hourglass of time could tightly grasp the flowing
sand. Alas, it was just an illusion, for reality is too cruel—some things cannot
be achieved through effort alone.
A daydream that lasted so long, a sunrise awaited for so long. Dreams are so
beautiful, and sinking into them is all too easy. There is a kind of happiness
that feels unreal, yet it exists in reality.
The fine raindrops under the eaves count my worries incessantly. From bold
strokes to light sketches, from utter despair to nonchalance, the tears that
have flowed solidify into verses, transcribed on rice paper, concealed in the
passage of time, and vanish without a trace. Life continues as usual, only
regretfully missing that lively person.
Moonlight pours down, a touch of desolate splendor painted upon the bustling
world. Raising a cup to the moon, three shadows become one. No longer dare to
casually claim exhaustion; perhaps having witnessed too much hardship, that kind
of difficulty deeply shook me. Life can be so powerful. What used to be
considered exhaustion was merely superficial. In this world, who hasn't
experienced storms? Who hasn't bowed and yielded? Who hasn't endured unspoken
grievances? Sadness is inevitable, but as for exhaustion, I'd rather not have
it! I don't want to be a fragile person.
Because of attachment and longing, we strive to live on. The scenery at the
ferry crossing always carries partings, whether it's with oneself, with familiar
faces, or with strangers. I always envision that my own parting from life and
death should be beautiful—snow falling from the sky, concealing all darkness
beneath its white blanket. I hope that the last glimpse I see will show a pure
world, free from any impurity. In this way, I wouldn't mind drinking Meng Po's
soup on the Bridge of Helplessness. In the next life, I will forget everything
from the previous one, and the Three-Life Stone will keep those memories for me.
In the next cycle, when I return here, what kind of enlightenment will I gain
from observing the karmic cycle of past lives? |