Listen, who is playing a melancholic melody on the strings amidst the three thousand red dusts? And who, intoxicated in the misty red dust, is the calligrapher who writes the romance of flowers, snow, and moonlight? A Tang poem, a Song lyric, a flute's sound, rippled with the yearning of past and present lives.

The door is closed with peach blossoms, the west window casts a candle's light for a nighttime conversation; the shadow shifts on the windowsill, and the night dew reveals a farewell. Mist, pale moonlight, soft west wind; fallen flowers, withered leaves, a pillow of heartfelt longing, red tears sing a clear song, intertwining with smoke and sand, tears of pearls wash away the leaden brilliance. The candle is extinguished, the remaining light is dim and incomplete, cutting through the sorrowful lines on the heart, sleeplessness, tears dampen the clothes. Seeing cherry blossoms fill the sky, sorrow continues to flow, but it cannot conceal the mottled flow of time. Burned-out brilliance, transformed into lotuses of the other shore—for whom?

A graceful lyric, kneaded into the heart, inch by inch, jade-colored ink, blooming within the delicate beauty, filling the ethereal verses, stirring the melancholy in the eyebrows, fading the delicate ends of fallen flowers, transforming into intangible ink fragrance, vast and distant, a sudden gust of wind causes the ripples of the lake to flow, raising wisps of love's threads. Water flows without trace, light and shadow flow through time, dreams linger, a continued remembrance, faint and hopeful.