Without past, without intervention,
it is spectating.
Memories are few,
present is new,
none can see, and none can hear,
the role of a spectator.
To see yet not do,
to hear yet not say,
spectator are lonely beings.
A single step feels like thousand leaps.
The people are near,
yet sounds are not here.
Fear is near,
but people are nowhere here.
Alone, the fear is severe,
with no one here,
how can I cheer?
At times, the road is murky,
colorless as ancient paintings.
Road is far, a character dotting alone,
not the first nor last.
Perhaps... My hometown is still there,
waiting for my return after this walk in life.
Too far... Too far...
The wind passes, tugging at the candlelight.
I dance with no one as an audience,
only petals drifting in the wind.
Sealed all that of the past,
turning it into a beautiful dream.
Now love has exiled me,
I heard someone once said—
Dream is an escape... Is that so?
A great sage once said,
'A journey of a thousand miles
begins beneath one's feet.'
'A journey of one foot
begin with one's intention.'
Dream is a bubble,
easily burst from a light touch.
At time, I forget I am a guest in my dream,
A host and a guest;
In control yet not,
bizarre yet naught,
unexpected yet forgot.
Life too, is a dream,
a very long dream indeed.
Fate is a thread,
the breadcrumbs that never fades.
Sometimes, it's best to relaxed,
let that thread guides you.
Only fate knows where the thread ends,
you are simply a visitor guided by its invitation.