There's a small store at the edge of the clouds,
with shelves piled high with years and sunsets,
and mountains behind it.
The old man leans on his recliner pretending to be asleep,
while a child steals a piece of candy.
At what hour do tears fall to the ground,
and where will the birds fly?
People gather and leave,
clouds come and go.
The storytelleralways has one story they don't want to tell.
Time flies. Whispers turn into paper.
Grandma says,
What is home?
It's where your ancestors are buried,
so we call it home.
In most people's hearts,
their hometown later becomes a dot,
like an unchanging island in the vastness.
Some people leave deep scars that fade away in just a few years.
Some stay by your side,
whether alive or dead.
Those stronger than you either pity you or ignore you.
Most sentimentality in this world is seen as malingering.
To understand what illness you have is basically being a bosom friend.
The most comfortable relationship between people is,
that they can both remain silent for a long time and,
also speak at any moment.
Is waiting also called effort?
Are you waiting for others to leave or for yourself to give up?
Hope and sadness are both rays of light. One day, we will meet again.
In that scorching summer,
the girl's sorrow burned a hole through the back of the young man,
straight through to his heart,
with countless seasons' winds passing through this channel.
A firefly danced in the wind, flickering on and off.
I don't know when it started,
but many things have been going on for many years.
Illusions are good, dreams are good,
everything far from reality is good.
It turns out that many,
things in this world cannot be achieved just because you have a plan and perseverance.
In my memory, the reservoir is shrouded in mist in autumn and winter,
brightly colorful in spring and summer.
During the day,
the water is calm and gentle,
deep and invisible.
It can wrap around children
floating on their backs and hide tales of water monkeys that eat humans.
The songs of spring and summer,
the songs of the winter solstice,
all skim over the surface of the water,
wrinkling it like tears falling from the sky,
only to return to the sky.
Casual words spoken by people fall to the corners,
blown not by the wind,
burned not by the sun,
sleeping alone.
If every matter is calculated carefully,
by the time you figure it out,
it might be too late to act.
There is a cloud in full bloom,
slowly sliding over the mountain peak,
floating towards the horizon with the wind.
We gradually understand that some farewells are the last we'll see.
The mountain breeze is gentle,
like waves shaking under moonlight.
Warm and soft,
lingering behind time,
becoming childhood stories heard before.
In distant cities,
unfamiliar places,
there are mountains and seas he has never seen.
Accustomed to waiting,
still sad when it doesn't come,
this kind of sadness,
books say it's called disappointment.
Only after growing up does he realize that there is a greater sadness called despair.
No matter who spreads out a sheet of paper and writes three words:
I love you, it might be the last love letter of the 21st century.
Line by line,
like an unfinished poem forever,
checking off items as he completes them.
July's sky is clear even at dusk,
with vibrant blue tinted by fiery clouds,
air smoothly entering the chest,
breathing in the aftertaste of weather.
The moon hangs halfway up the sky,
hills rising and falling behind the town,
with silver-white edges floating on the mountain shapes.
Peach branches are lush with leaves,
rustling in the wind as if bringing news from the mountains;
she smells it contentedly.
As if smelling something in the wind,
it crosses mountains and forests,
passes through years,
with the scent of waves gently lapping against sandy shores.
The edges of the clouds take on golden hues,
the horizon slowly brightens,
and the morning sun rises above the clouds;
rosy glows spread silently,
as if the rolling sea of clouds is right beneath our feet.
It's really strange how easily people laugh when they're very sad;
beyond sadness comes guilt.
Life has its own light;
before I extinguish mine completely,
if I can illuminate you even slightly—that is all I can do for you;
I love you;
remember me.
Some cry,
some laugh;
some lose;
some grow old.
The walls are covered in crumbling patches of age,
reflecting swaying tree shadows like an old film strip.
June cicadas chirp with a fine density;
almost imperceptible like tinnitus upon waking up.
The color darkens into a soft haze;
distant green hills like ink; through dark woods;
lights in town turn on one by one;
cooking smoke tints evening red.
Dusk sweeps across wheat waves;
mountain peaks obscure setting sun;
frog croaks can be heard beside fields in small towns nestled among hillsides.
He knows nothing;
unable to describe how to create a home in everyone's future world created together.
I have something important to do; if I lose this game; then I truly have nothing left.
The train stops for two minutes; why did your farewell only take one minute?