Snow points to the road of white hair
Time melts into water
We raise cups, water turning into wine
The empty pottery jar of art
will not be filled with rice
Golden beach and blue sea
the mermaid changes all our lives
Someone counts a string of beads
repeatedly murmurs life is suffering
But whether to rub salt in the wound
or spread olive oil
or smear honey
the outcome will be very different
Oars slap the water
A boat cruises on the vast
We sit in the boat
If there were no shore
the transcendence we boast
will be so transient
A stone falls into a well
smashing the moon
But the screams are not from the moon
The place you stand at
determines how you think
You cannot say the hand is a tree branch
and nor can you say once someone jumps into the well
he will become the person in the moon
This is nothing like a bird
for a favorite target
bumps to death on a transparent glass wall
Rationality puts the mock away
Such purity makes you obsessed
and let you shed tears
A group of bats fly out of a cave
like blood from the wound
You are unable to stop that, and it is difficult to trace
the bottom of a dark cave that comes from the heart
Snow points to the road of white hair
We live in words
hearing the wind in snow
Two skewed rows of footprints lead to the outside of the cave