Better to be a solitary moon than surrounded by many stars.
Amidst a multitude of stars, it's better to be a solitary moon shining alone,Uniformly winds and desires, diluted like a faint mist and red dust. A brush and ink reveal mountains and water, filled with the beauty of spring and autumn. One umbrella of crimson orchids is planted, yet a trace of pure white sentiment lingers. Listening to the falling autumn breeze, tears froze in the clear autumn air…
One scroll, one unfurling, the fitting sentiment, one glimpse of time. It stirred the strings within the heart, and only the lingering extravagance of blossoms remained. A gentle touch of the river, painting a world of fleeting prosperity and falling spring. Scattered cold stars, the years grew desolate, and the moon became even colder and lonelier. If heaven lacks compassion, it still possesses emotion, a serene smile graces the brow…
Because of this connection, a lifetime of wanderlust is a profound expression of deep affection, three lives of smoke and fire are like blossoms blooming on the other shore, a single glance returns the spirit and the wind. Again crossing the red dust, a reflection of self-compassion, solitary and unappreciated. A poem, dedicated to a graceful display of the face, the world's cold and warmth are only for oneself to perceive…
Painting a late evening sunset, watching the traces of shooting stars. The lingering dream falls like this. Black and white planes, one scroll of plain paper, absorbing the fragrance of ink. The lone moon fell into a waterfall, pouring into the river of time. The old vines entwined around ancient trees, etched their own rings of years. The stars vanished, the moon became a solitary moon…
Discarding a world of dust and grime, yet experiencing a lifetime of snow and hardship. Listen, when the north wind comes, pear blossoms bloom, pure and unyielding. Dream-spring water tinkles, leaving behind a tea lamp, lone stars and moons, who's shooting stars? Who's the moon? And who's the gentle, warming wind?
Dreams, time illuminates the warm glow of an oil lamp, condensing into writing.
Awakening, the cold wind extinguished a simple tea lamp, fading into shadows.
Still, a vast expanse of crimson, a farewell to the snow, the wind is thin, the clouds drift by. It's said that all things change, for good or for ill, sometimes a few lone stars are like the vastness of the cosmos. That lone moon is half of your dream, dreamed, then there is the vast cosmos, moon and stars together, sun and moon in harmony.
At that time, it would certainly be beautiful, dazzlingly so.
Lone stars, solitary moons, are all incomplete dreams yet to be realized. On that day, stars would bloom…
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