In eastern hill, the lake is murky, sky wearing crimson colour flurries. There're rumors of a mysterious sage Who could answer many worries. I find I'm crowded full of parting's feelings, Alas, he does not wish for healing.
Tonight, the moon is far, A beautiful petal, perching behind the mist. Sitting by the pavilion lake with a wine jar, I reached for the reflection as my spirit drift.
Beneath a willow tree, Death ask Life, “Why is it that they avoid me?” To that, Life smiled and whispered to his ear. “Because you are the painful truth.”
The sky is long, the road is far, wind and snow blow straight. Dangling white specks of snow unfolded gracefully, Yet home is naught when the dust flutters. Just like a fishing boat in the rain, Destination is just another rest-stop.