A person's life, swept along by the torrents of history, is like a mote of dust tossed by the wind, only to land by chance on the cogs of a clock. As the gears turn, it thinks it is the mark itself. Only when rust creeps over it does it realize that we are merely a sigh that has briefly appeared in time.
The past and what came before are a broken moon, scattering into darkness at the slightest touch. Scooped up, they are covered in fingerprints. They call this “memory.”
That memory is a faded qipao hanging from the beams of an old house. When the wind blows, what falls with a soft rustle is someone else's time.
The future is an unlit lantern in the fog. We run, holding up the one damp half-match we have, unable to set yesterday's old days alight, our soles still caked with yesterday's mud. Someone asks for directions.
The spark between our fingers flickers, like a farewell left unsaid.
Now, someone stands at a crease in the torrent,
folding the meaning of a lifetime into a paper boat.
Poems are written on its prow, salt is carried in its stern.
Only when it is set upon the water do we discover that every word has blurred into the color of dusk.
And at last I understand:
existence is not the inscription on a monument, but the incense burning before it.
When it burns out, its smoke will embrace the sky for me.
From the ashes, a wild sunflower will grow,
and toward a hope that died many years ago,
it will stubbornly bloom.
Detailed descriptions are frequently combined with scene descriptions to fully describe the protagonist's demeanor and state.
Very beautiful and rich in vocabulary