Into the mood of this rainy summer, deep in the lush forests of damp branches and floating minds - unable to ignite the fire that warms sleep. Spirits of the forest, I kiss the thick meadows where you have danced, and I march reverently and humbly alone. I am a stranger, my bright joys gray and pale in your joyful singing.
I envy your free expression of life's splendor, and honestly despise my own vulgarity and boredom. If you know where I am going, please mark my pathlessness with some direction - a drop of dew or a small leaf that has withered.
(ii)
You have misread me like this frothy rain that rages in July. You have no way of knowing why I have not been able to defend myself. Because it's hard to know your own kind, but it's as easy to misinterpret as it is to look up and see the stars - the ones that are small but bigger than the ones we want at our feet.
My loneliness in the crowd comes from an aching sobriety, and I try to avoid the confession that I don't mean what I say, what does the amnesia in your smile say? Is the chase stuck? Or is it the fear of the darkness that can't be hidden after the curtain call?
My dance was prepared in haste, I do not want to perform nobility with a low-key solo.
I never dared to approach nobility. I tried to unravel myself, and just as I opened my mouth, I had retracted it. I refuse to have another remorse.
Everything is doomed, destined to be a sad audience, but never want to see those repeated performances.
(3)
My heart always rings a most beautiful tune, it has no sound, it is just intertwined in the ideal light and color, just like me in the dreamless dream, see the teenager once obsessed with the mileage of the mind.
The moonlit night, I walked on the calm river. The surface of the river extends like a song of this life, as if I saw the farthest mountains of the pale.
The song of life, to close your eyes and listen with your heart.
(4)
The sky is cloudy, and I can't see the rainbow of love. I'm not sure if you're going to be able to get a good deal on a new one, but I'm sure you'll be able to get a good deal on a new one. I only love you one of the colors, you love me and what is it?
If love is beautiful because it is unreal and distant, then you all have your own love.
I palpitate today at its prettiness, but cannot walk carefully on it.
(v)
I wonder, what are these tactless words of mine? I say they are just the dreamy ravings of the marginalized, just a game for the riddler himself, just a reagent to ease his helpless heart, just a patina of half-truths and half-falsehoods.
You say it's poetry. But I still have to tell you: I do not understand the poem, nor do I understand myself.
(F)
Accumulating light dust is my young man's six-stringed lute and my gray temples. I started singing about the unknown from singing about love, and I started playing about life from playing about dreams.
I want to go and stay. The only thing that is lost is not only the direction, but also the home of the soul.
That is the longest trek. The mountain, all the way to all the way to the scenery filled with memories. I don't want to be a walker with my head down. I just want to wait at the top of a lofty but desolate mountain, waiting for the call of fate, waiting for it to tell me, why I walked to today? I'm not going to be able to do that.
Day and night, reality and ideal sleep in the same cluster of time in the mountain forest. Who and whose breath, in the sky and earth . Harmonize in the emptiness?
The order of man and nature runs counter to each other, and we choose, with ignorance, either one or the other.
(VII)
I walk blindly in the wilderness darkness, without moonlight, without my own figure following me.
A wooden staff and a lamp for this life.
Even if I can't see them - form and shadow - I am not alone. Everyone is not alone.
The lamps call my name in the distant desert, as thin as a thread; the wooden staff, however, will guide my feet towards the place where the sun once rose, where there are fertile fields and sweet fruits you need, and where everything is plentiful. I have hesitated and wandered too long for the call I have heard since I descended. It is still far away, thin as a thread.
Tiredness is like traveling without a purpose, the farther you go, the more empty your bags are.
Give me a door and an empty house, so that I can recuperate in the closest place to home, add a pot of fresh water, pregnant with a few wild fruits, and set off again.
At this time, "home" is still that unattainable light, a hope, a thought, a kind of signpost similar to the North Star.
I don't know where I will go.
I don't know the result and the real image. Until the last yellow leaves of the fall of my life fall before my eyes, until the moment when I stay down permanently.
I sealed my final boredom with life and death from the mirror that is the sky.