Waiting for the Next Spring
The wind blows southward on my head, and the stars have already sealed my fate upwards.
Don't worry, exquisite flowers will bloom in the spring.
About winter, you are no longer an observer; since you cannot avoid its sharpness, it's better to be calm and contemplate.
Don't be a passerby. The harshness and cold of winter are not the essence of winter; the profound affection piled up by snowflakes will melt into boundless spring.
You cannot transcend it; you need to wait, like plants waiting for March, or a homecoming wanderer waiting for their homeland.
Perhaps your eyes have never lacked greenery, so I've never cared about the departure and return of spring. The poetry of flower-lit nights and fleeting encounters is also a frivolous indulgence. Just because I have the beloved in my palm, I dare to be so reckless in this mixed world.
Like the phoenix in a jade tower, burdened by spring sorrow, one would confine sudden joy to a high chamber. People come and go, relationships are formed and broken, seeing countless faces is ultimately for seeing oneself. Just as we let go of the sword, we no longer hesitate, flowers bloom everywhere, and we sow seeds of love on this shore and that shore.
During every festival, the homesickness is not just a two-way train ticket that can carry it; next year's spring will refine our melodies, or we can draw from classics, and climb another high-stemmed flower.
