I live in a small town, and the plain and beautiful verse in the poem is the path paved by my eyes. I hope your voice coming from the water will strike my heart.
What pains me is, how do you, a bird, perch under which flower and wait like a Zen?
I can't imagine you.
Love is a purple butterfly, which raises many lovely images in a small deep sky.
Singing vivid songs for you day after day.
Even though the rainy season is endless, dreams are calluses. Wait, it's the direction of the watch.
Why? Your arrival is destined to put me through the test of fire.
Why? My poems always swim across the river of tears.
Why? Maple leaves are red, but you and I missed the classical encounter this autumn.
Our love has no reason, and there is no answer to each other, just like the light of grapes. Who can measure it?
Honey, do you feel my heart beating? I am picking real roses. I want to wash the dust off my face, make my mind completely clean, polish all the candlelight, and have dinner with you in romantic or sad saxophone music for life.
All this is just my imagination.
There is not a trace of winter, and my notes are only in the background of cicada singing and reed flowers blooming in the distance, carrying a lonely guitar.
Only by listening to the sound of the passage of time, just a stone's throw away, can you know the full significance of my wandering in the world.
Because this life-you are my beautiful bride, and I am your thin and pure singer.