The rivers and lakes are just a piece of grass
The footprints of the predecessors are left behind
They are all blown away by the wind and the fog fades
There is no instruction The marked road
was actually sung by wanderers to twist and turn
The lonely sunset
only lengthened the lonely figure
Alone in the streets of a foreign land
In front of the falling leaves
"Heroes in the Grass" was still crying yesterday
The helplessness of the geese coming and going
On today's title page
I wrote down the love song of "Ten Miles Pavilion" after saying goodbye
My right hand holds the undrawn hilt of the sword
For Be alert to the love between children in the snow
Turn around suddenly and see the white snow
Clearly they are the fallen leaves of the past
Gaze at the world in front of your eyes
Sculpting a proud goshawk
Accompanied by a series of quiet songs
The smoke from the kitchen stalled under the starry sky
Looking back at the fifteenth moon
What time are the cold stars ahead?
Lying behind the ancient tree with a sword in hand
Singing the song "Swordsman"
The night spreads its wings but cannot fly out of the attachment in my heart
I just hold on through the cold branches
I want to see the unconstrained style
And the erratic scenery Where are the clouds going?
Just the skin next to the tree trunk
The frozen will that is about to melt
Just curled up and hugging the sword
Don’t let the wind blow open the frayed hem
Reminiscing about singing “Send You A Thousand Miles Away”
The smile is a brilliant ‘rising sun
So I strode away from the world Whereabouts
A whole day of running around is underfoot
There is a small shop on the roadside again
That beckoning gesture
It really looks like the old tree in my hometown
The old tree that has been standing for hundreds of years
Turn your head and let the wind greet you
Put the sword on your shoulder
Still holding on to the hilt of the will
But the cold temperature
has slowed down the feet that alternately move forward
Dusk in a foreign land is always so desolate
The mountains are at ease
There is always the sound of following wind
Every time you climb a high mountain ridge
They all stood still and seemed to be meditating
Turning back to their hometown at the other end of the road
After the slanting light faded through the small window of the small house
Always A motherly light