The fleeting nature of love, shattered sorrow
Gentle breeze dances with the bright moon, amidst lingering dreams and fallen flowers, upon awakening from a dream, the sorrowful lines between your eyebrows are stained with yearning, a heart-wrenching lament.
Ancient realms and crisscrossing paths, encapsulated in a single stroke of ink's fragrance, amidst the chaos of the mortal world, a silent testament to a long-lost era of pain.
Like flowing water, the years pass, and all that's cherished is merely a bygone era.
Cold jade carvings, a curtain drawn back to reveal a layer of icy coolness, countless cycles of reincarnation, a lifetime of dreams.
The longing in my eyes isn't for you, I don't cast glances in your direction; the lament fades away, adrift in the flow of years, in the end, no one truly belongs to anyone.
A cup of clear tea, a scroll of ancient poetry, a smooth inkstone, a pure heart – in the depths of the brush, a lonely night's contemplation arises.
Half-city shrouded in mist, half-night illuminated by a cold moon, half a footstep, half a lifetime of madness, a shattered heart brought to life in a dream.
The years captured in ink, stained with the ashes of time, transformed into emptiness, a flurry of shimmering tears.
Do not ask of this lifetime, comparing the beauty of spring blossoms and the grandeur of pavilions to the fleeting nature of time; when the song ends, the audience disappears, and fate is merely a matter of meeting and parting.
Bearing the weight of the world, only for the sake of waiting for a chance encounter in the next life.
Mist clears, dream fades, I finally see the truth—the profound stillness after countless ships have passed.
Who sits beneath the Bodhi tree, recounting season after season of falling cherry blossoms?
A soft murmur, a shivering sigh, a gentle flow of longing.
Who is it who plays a sorrowful melody on a stringed instrument amidst the three thousand red dust realms?
And who, immersed in the misty red dust, writes of the romance and beauty of the mortal world with the lingering fragrance of ink?
A Tang poem, a Song lyric, a flute's melody—ripple through the affections of past and present lifetimes.
Crossroads and realms, who's waiting has fallen, once waiting under a thousand-year-old tree, only hoping for a glance from you.
Once I burned incense beneath the Bodhi tree, solely to await a cycle of reincarnation, a meeting.
Crossroads and realms, ultimately a fleeting bloom of loneliness, memories drifting through the years, who's tears have fallen.
Like smoke, the past is indistinct, who has drifted away, who's longing? Like a dream, the memories drift, who's waiting has fallen?
Saying farewell to you, without inquiring about the extent of the past sorrow, only for the sake of a previous life's agreement, seeing the human world desolate, you are no longer here.
Walking away, leaving behind the vast expanse of the mortal world, only this lifetime, at this moment, you remain, or perhaps you've forgotten to bring back memories.
If I were to wait, would you return? Dream fading, I lift my head in anticipation, five hundred years of glances in a previous life, solely for companionship in this lifetime.
You say your memories don't include me, your world, I never appeared, why my heart, filled with a lifetime of your tenderness.
