Shadows of Flowers Swaying – A Curtain of Poetry
Scattered shadows and empty halls, people gone and buildings deserted. Scattered across the ground are the past, carrying the fragrance of bygone years, lingering in the dust of time. Approach, they are vivid memories, dispersed, they are fragmented poems. Unspoken thoughts, shadows of flowers slant across the curtain, sharing this fleeting dream!
Time's vines have long overgrown the screen of longing. Countless entangled hearts rest as scrolls of silk within the flower shadows. High buildings, a broken gaze, how can sorrow be eased? It's hardest to say goodbye to separation, crimson clouds, jade rivers, and a chilling mist. Whose sorrows can be told? They're all lost in a single poem. Outside the curtain, a clear breeze and a bright moon, flower shadows sway, bamboo shadows fill the space, inside the curtain, the fragrance of ink fills the sleeves, candles flicker, lines of poetry, deep or shallow, capture all who understand, and forever solidify them. The moon doesn't speak, the clouds don't speak, the wind brings petals of flowers carrying messages, each petal written with your longing, each petal telling your deep affection.
Moonlit flowers and shadows, flowers bloom under the full moon. Reading your poems, your lines, untouched by the moon and dust, naturally blossoming and fading, without seeking pleasure, only for one person's heart. You once placed a flower's heart back on the branch, waiting for it to bloom, and from then on, the moonlight wouldn't add any splendor. In one moonlit night, see the coolness of the flower shadows, see the scattered flowers falling like rain, understand the pain of a flower detaching from its branch, your every poem is the shadow of a flower, the scent of a flower, stained with the tears of a flower.
Amidst the frontier's raging smoke, a thousand miles of rivers and mountains like drifting snow, speak to tears of parting sorrow, wish to speak but cannot, the immediate separation of feelings, tears on the clothes, poetry is always soaked in tears, each word conveys separation, each chapter conveys sorrow. Alone, guarding the window, gazing at the sun all day, flower shadows press down on the overhanging eaves, a loosely drawn curtain reveals the fading moon. Not to sing to the wind about passing flowers, only to wait for flower shadows under the moon, who is it? Looking at a withered and faded beauty, piercing through the moonlight. A beautiful woman, the moon lingers, flower shadows accompany me with a clear heart like water, watching layer upon layer of flower shadows bloom under the moon, swaying with the sadness of separation, scattering poetry and fragrance across the ground!
Brew a pot of time's tea, drink in a pot of moonlight, the moonlight flows, illuminating a touch of quiet flower shadows, a few cold stone paths, a bit of the entanglement of flower branches, a bit of your murmurs in the bamboo shadows. Moonlit flower shadows, laugh at the world's joy and sorrow, the vast world of red dust, cannot be finished with a myriad of flowers like brocade. Quietly listen to the warm, jade-colored whispers of the moonlight, gently brush the silver of warm jade. Sorrowful sentiments are entrusted to the bright moon, repeated flower shadows, a broken scroll, a heart-wrenching sentence, this dream, lost in the dream, failed to send, regretting the cold fragrance of flower shadows, you leave, the empty hall, unable to look back, the poet is even more withered than a fallen flower!
The wind and moon have no beginning or end, affections are deep or shallow, red dust on the roadside, time is cool, the past is like smoke and vanishes, fragmented thoughts, deep thoughts, withered and fallen, reciting emptiness and sorrow. A cool wind blows through the window, bringing a few idle sorrows, the river of stars is bleak and dim, shrouded in mist, who knows where the heart's sorrows fall, a little ink is spilled like a light rain, unable to dispel the tears of the vast sky and the separation of people, unable to finish a little bit of sorrowful feeling. The most deeply imprinted memory in years is finally dissolved by the coldness of separation, becoming a wisp of melancholy, drifting with the wind.
