Close your eyes in the incense fog of the temple
Suddenly hear
The truth you sang
January of that year
I turn all the curved pipes.
Not to cross over.
Just to touch your fingertips
That year
I kowtowed and climbed the mountain road.
Not for the audience.
Just to keep your warmth.
Ina
I put mountains, water and pagodas
Not for the afterlife.
Just to meet you on the road.
I don't want to introduce who this author is, hehe, not me.
But I want to say that when I first read this poem, I was really shocked by that persistent expectation. At that moment, I just waited.