Tonight, under the half-curtained moon, a wisp of floral fragrance sways and gently permeates the twilight. I have laid out the plain paper of the past, with a faint fragrance of ink and a hint of sadness. I will sing all the love of a lifetime under my fingertips, retaining your past warmth and inhabiting my old and tired phrases. I plant trees full of acacia trees and miss them all the time. When the new ink fades from the line of paper, about the things between your eyebrows, the sad words on a piece of paper describe the past like floating ocean and clouds.
The years have changed, and decades of prosperity have passed by in the blink of an eye. Sitting behind time, closing your eyes, walking in a trance through the past chapters. Quietly, falling into the distant meditation, I saw my reflection, like the sparse moon marks. So I hid in the words and cried and laughed, with an indescribable loneliness, imagining a lot of idle words that didn't make sense.
Stumble into the dream, step on the lonely footsteps on the mossy stone steps full of memories, and look for traces of your journey. On the water, on the top of the mountain, it seems that I am waiting for an appointment made in my previous life, stubborn and focused. In the dream, there is a real feeling. From the end of the blue sky, you are coming with your songs and your steps, so that I can meet you in peace and determination. Deep in my eyes, there is no separation, your affectionate call, I am your only one. All of this is like a roll of fragrant poems, tenderness lingering around the fingers, lingering into the long-lost wind, flowers, snow and moon, and every line of dialogue is transformed into poetry and song. Knowing that this is a phantom, I pass through one after another, willing to treat it as a hidden dream, let love sing and let love bloom. Then, I am also a mulberry in my youth, and I am silent and red. Let all the lost pain and beauty be as long as water on the plain paper, flowing through my world of mortals and your strings.
Toast a glass to the moon, pick flowers with delicate hands, pick up a roll of delicate moods, write a poem filled with moods from the Song Dynasty, and savor it carefully. Let the flowers bloom and fade, and the years pass by, all surrounded by the palm of your hand. Sometimes I wonder if it is the agreement between you and me in the past life. In this life, following the ancient charm, I will come all the way to find you. The oaths made to heaven like in the ancient songs can be vaguely seen: "Shangxie! I want to know you, and I will live forever. There are no mountains and mausoleums, and the heaven and the earth are united, so I dare to break up with you." After thousands of years of haze, I still feel Burn your and my eyebrows.
The memory of the fragrance of flowers filling my sleeves, I stood in the morning dew, holding a piece of the withered dream of last night, reluctant to let go of the fragrance and love that had not disappeared in the dream, broken into pieces and drifting away. The sound of the piano is not broken, but the strings are broken. I am often trapped in the shackles of knitting. How can I continue to write a volume of old dreams? Past the traces of time, I still cling to my past mistakes, causing all my emotions to wander. I hold on to the passing past tightly and refuse to let go. Everything has passed. I am used to hearing such words, but I still never forget them.
How soon, how many times have passed, and the gentle and soft words that once were there are now weak. The lonely figure, emaciated into a rotten fossil, keeps this emotion alone but cannot bridge the distance. As long as you reach out and wipe the world of mortals, the night will suddenly turn into ink, and love will be trapped in the world of mortals. But the images of the past are still clearly visible. Who passed by whose window? Who is looking back in the dim light? Who is gazing through the screen window, just inhabiting each other's figures, and they are both tender and affectionate? The wind blows the fallen flowers gently, and the shadows of the water clouds remain in the sky. When the memories fly away in the dust and smoke of reincarnation, like smoke and fog, who has forgotten whom?
How many stories are opened in one season and then gently closed in another season. When I write, I write articles and words based on you. Every chapter and sentence, I want to describe your appearance, but it always becomes a blurred shadow. I can no longer count how many sentences I have missed and how many words I have scribbled in front of you. I have long known that to me, it is just the lingering fragrance on your sleeve. With you, it’s just a snowy moon in the old year. With me, we have been lonely since then. If you keep talking nonsense like this, you are just deceiving yourself and others.
Yi Ru, Li Ge